


Blessed be the Fruit

by Human_Being



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alpha Victor Nikiforov, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Angst, Fertility Issues, M/M, Mentions of homophobia, Omega Katsuki Yuuri, Rape/Non-con Elements, enslavement, loosely based on The Handmaid's Tale by Margaret Atwood, mentions of religious fundamentalism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-11
Updated: 2017-11-18
Packaged: 2018-11-12 23:05:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 24,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11171967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Human_Being/pseuds/Human_Being
Summary: "...But Jesus turned to them and said, “Daughters of Jerusalem, do not weep for Me, but weep for yourselves and for your children. Look, the days are coming when people will say, ‘Blessed are the barren women, the wombs that never bore, and breasts that never nursed..."...But better off than both of them is the one who has never existed, who has never seen the evil activity that is done under the sun."On a Totalitarian Russia stricken with outer wars and growing inner oppression, amidst an unprecedented drop on birthrates all around the globe, fertility is a matter of state and your seed is not your own. Those who can bear children are property of the Regimen, and lent to members of the High Command or very few citizens eligible as strong enough alphas.They are the breeders.Viktor never asked for this.Or,This is what happens when a YOI complete trash watches way too much The Handmaid's Tale.





	1. The Mother and the Childless

**Author's Note:**

> Well, this is the very first time I ever write an A/B/O fic and I gotta say I NEVER EVER EVER thought about doing so. But then The Handmaid's Tale came into my life and OOOO BOY I could NOT let it go. 
> 
> So yeah: What would happen if the same dystopian idea of THT is applied on YOI on an ABO dynamics? Downright angst? Tragedy? Everything that is so not YOI but we come to like so much? 
> 
> This is it. Buckle your seatbelts and enjoy the ride. 
> 
> PS.: Yes I know I have to finish Stinkerbell. I will. Just lemme take this out of my system first...

“...A commemorative photo?”   
  
It’s the first thing he’s asked from the Officer walking him to the High Command of Saint Petersburg. He looks at him as if he’s seeing a childhood idol. When he started winning, how old could he be? Thirteen, twelve at the youngest, not less than that.

He’s too old as to have been a small child when he won his first Senior Grand Prix, twelve years ago.

Most people are, now.

He smiled back, polite as ever, and postured to take the shot. Years of practice with the fans and sport press.

While he was being taken to his meeting with the Kommissar, he kept looking at the Mariinsky Palace’s décor. All the same, not that he didn’t know it well already, as the illustrious city’s son he was he had come here many times to collect homages and commends. It was exactly the fact that everything looked so much the same that shocked him the most.

The door was open and there was the man he came to meet, on a carefully polished desk in which everything was millimetrically arranged to convey the same sense of permanence and steadiness.

A shell of normalcy kept by the Regimen now ruling his country.

“Komrade Nikiforov”, that’s what the Kommissar said as he stood to the classical soviet greeting borrowed by the Regimen. “It’s my pleasure to have at my desk such a remarkable man, whose deeds had brought so much glory to Mother Russia on those all too difficult times…”

A lie. He knew it. Because at the end of the day he was just a figure skater, no matter how many medals and prizes he had. That aside, he was so much of an inconvenience as his friends shot at the Senate Square, or the ones who vanished into thin air after the Parliament dissolution.

“The pleasure is mine, Kommissar”, he smiled on the smoothest reply he could get. The Officer retreated and closed the door behind him. “How can I help you?”

Viktor Nikiforov, however, had little expectations about his use to a technocrat of the Regimen. He knew well where the power lies on the room. His sweaty and cold hands stated that much.

His use was to be molded by them - the Commissars and Ministers of the Regimen - to be the perfect National Hero. To be compressed and mutilated on his essence until he fits in, no matter at what cost. His body, his intimacy, none of that mattered.

Mother Russia needs her heroes.

Heros are for children, no?

The very few that are left.

As strange as it sounds, thinking about children - or the lack thereof, since the global birth crisis that made birthrates all over the world drop to a tiny fraction of what they once were - made him think of his father. His _Papik_ , that stubborn, inquisitive, combative and non-conformist soul that, if hadn’t leave this planet out of a fatal heart attack, would surely meet his fate hanged on the wall at the Niva River, or dying on a Gulag from overexposure to the lethal radiation of the Eurasian War’s toxic waste.

He died happy in his sleep, his old man. And even  though Viktor cried bitter tears when he buried his dad at his twenties, he was now ridiculously grateful that his father did not live to see the shit they were all neck-deep in.

Even the Kommissar, be damned the stars on his chest from his military titles.

“Have a seat.”

Viktor did as told.

“Komrade Nikiforov, as you know well the Country had always been following your stellar career with attention and joy. Indeed, quite a few countries have such a talented and vigorous alpha for a top athlete, is it not?” The Kommissar drummed his fingers on the polished desk, the grease on his fingertips visible from Viktor’s sight. “But we are considerate enough to reckon that, at twenty eight, you might not be on your prime anymore…”

Sochi. He could remember Sochi, the last Grand Prix Final he took part of a year and a half ago. For what’s worth, the last international competition any russian athlete took part of, since it was right before the terrorist attacks at Sochi and Saint Petersburg, which were followed by the Parliament dissolution and the ‘martial state’ that culminated on the Regimen. He’d won gold, hiding the void inside him behind a precise smile at the podium. He acted just as the champion he was expected to be, cheered by the audience surrounded by the Officers in black, faces behind balaclavas and ushankas while holding Kalashnikovs loaded to the brim. Everyone said, it’s for security, it’s for the best, and kept pretending the Officers weren’t there.

“...I’m not sure I get what you mean, Kommissar…” He kept his voice from cracking, because he did.

“Well, Nikiforov, It’s time for you to retire, no?”

Viktor had on his joints and muscles the memory of countless hours of training. The pain from limbs too sore to even walk after a skating session. Each injury, each lesion. Tears, sweat and blood on his ice. The loneliness of having to dedicate all his waking hours to skating, to keep himself hidden and maintain an adequate persona to the public eye.

The Regimen wanted more.

“You will be relocated at the Sports Ministry, so you’ll have the revenue and the stability to look after your offspring.”

He actually said, _you’ll leave the ice for good and will spend your days fucking a breeder in heat to give healthy pups to Mother Russia_.

He thought of Mila Babicheva, a beta girl, lovely and playful, but now duller and more scared at each passing day since her sister, a fertile beta woman, was abducted on what the Regimen called a ‘terrorist incident on St. Petersburg metro station.’ He remembered Natasha, an omega rinkmate of his days, gone without a trace since the Parliament’s fall. And many other fertile women and omega males, too many to count.

Gone, but not. For everyone could easily tell their whereabouts: On the households of the High Command and a few selected Alphas, giving them the children they could not have on their own.

Breeders.

“No” It escaped from his lips.

“No?”

The sided smug on the Kommissar’s face did little to conceal the satisfaction that shitty bureaucrat had on putting him on his due place.

“You see, Komrade Nikiforov… Russia indeed is a real mother to you. She gave you your career. The financial support, the equipment, the means. A true opportunity for you to show the true extent of your talent. And more, she gave you the comprehension only a mother could. Overlooked your flaws, your… proclivities.”

Viktor’s hands were shaking inside his coat’s pockets.

He knew what he was called of, beneath the conservative undergrounds of the Regimen. _Petukh_. The lowest insult you could throw at an Alpha. An Alpha unable to knot their omegas, so he let betas and other alphas take him as an Omega. The opposite of the Role Model of a reproductive alpha, the protector of his offspring. Because they knew Viktor was not discriminating about secondary genders and did have let alphas take him, and also made very clear his preferences on men over women. It was only by being the National Ace he was that the Regimen tolerated him for so long. Because if before it was little but a major annoyance on petty men like the Kommissar, now it was a unforgivable crime punishable by death on the rope.

Unless you proved yourself useful.

“...So now she asks so little of you, just that you finally set aside those eccentricities so you fulfill your duties, and you dare say, no?”

“It’s not that, I…”

“And the Mother is so. considerate. The Internal Matters Bureau took such a long time pondering your possibilities, such an effort to find someone you could be compatible without much hassle. And that’s how you repay our consideration towards you?”

He thought about Yakov, his beta old coach. A jew. Thought about Georgi, his beta rinkmate, also past his prime but pushing his body harder and harder because breaking on the ice was a better prospect than the alternative.

He thought of Yuri Plisetsky, a fifteen year old junior champion, a talented skater that was nothing but a child who was taking too long to present. Everyone thought there wouldn’t be much of a problem because of his fiery temper, but Viktor knew better. Fiery temper meant nothing, and taking long to mature is a worse sign than a better one.

What if little Yuri was an omega?

Not even all the gold medals in the world would keep him safe from the Regimen throwing him into the nest of some alpha Commander.

At the Ministry, he could do something. Little, but something.

He bowed his head on an imperceptible nod, his eyes watering.

Blessed be his dead father, who didn’t live to see his only son dishonor himself like this.

***


	2. Those who suffer for the cause of Righteousness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey you all! 
> 
> First and foremost, a big thank you shout out to the lovely readers who left comments and kudos on this fic! Seriously, people, I am so glad. And I hope this one here doesn't let you down. I will try to keep up with weekly updates every tuesday from now on. 
> 
> Second: I may or may not come up with doodles for the fic, stay tuned fellas. And yes, I've got a [tumblr](http://hbeing.tumblr.com/) that was taken over by YOI. So hit me there if you like! 
> 
> Now, without further ado, let's get some angst, shall we?

**ESPN.com**  

**News**

**JJ Leroy seizes gold at Skate Canada, Yuri Plisetsky from Russia gets silver for 0,3 point difference**

Staff  
10:55am

The Skate Canada, second event from the Grand Prix, ends with a brilliant presentation from the homeboy Jean-Jacques Leroy, who apparently left behind  his underwhelming performance at the Barcelona GP finals . His performance seemed to balance both technical elements and presentation far better than his previous ones, said his coach and father Alain Leroy, which is what his new training regimen was aiming for.

But one must not think Leroy’s life this year is going to be easy: The Russian Skating Team is back on the international circuit. And they’re strong on their game just as always, as stated by the impressive presentation of the Senior newcomer Yuri Plisetsky . His impeccable presentation on his free program left him at astonishing 0,3 points behind the gold medalist. The bronze went to kazakh skater Otabek Altin, who scored a personal best on this competition.  

The Russian Team, however, is not hot topic only because Plisetsky’s talent. The absence of the legend Viktor Nikiforov, age 28 and most decorated figure skater of all times, sparked yet another rush of speculations about an eventual retirement. The delegation’s coach and historical partner of Nikiforov, Yakov Feltsman, declined comment about this issue, just as he declined comments about the manifestations in front of the delegation’s hotel.

Tags: News, Skate Canada, JJ Leroy, Russia, Eurasian War

 

Related articles:

** Skate Canada: Human rights protests target Russia’s delegation  **

** Sports events are neutral territory and do not interfere on the embargo, says Sports Minister of Canada about the Russian delegation on Skate Canada **

** Eurasian War debacle: Russia should not be allowed to compete while our people are still missing, says Japanese skater Minami Kenjirou  **

***

 

JJ was celebrating his gold, laughing and doing his infamous “JJ style” gesture like the douchebag he was. There they were, together for the official picture of the medallists, and the canadian was so stuck up his own ass he barely acknowledged him and Otabek.

He got silver - not good enough.

Not nearly close to good enough.

Along the hoopla over JJ and his asslickers, no one noticed when Otabek approached him to congratulate his silver. He tilted his head so he could kiss his cheek like on russian greetings; he whispered so low on his ear he could think it was just his imagination.

“Storage room, behind the lockers.”

***

 

His heart was rabbit fast on his chest while he sneaked his way on the stadium corridors. On each of them he took his time to find the cameras and check his route to avoid them the best he could, but he also knew he must get to his destination before someone at the Ministry missed him and started asking questions. He got inside the storage room, fairly certain no one would get him there. Otabek was there already, a black hoodie covering his head and his credential turned back. Just like him.

He got his hoodie off, then his shirt. His skin prickled because of the sudden cold. Otabek came closer, standing in front of him.

They had little time.

He hissed when he felt the ache of the shot on his shoulder, but did his best to repress any other physical sign of pain. Sure, it would hurt a lot more if he tried to do it by himself.

“Are you sure they won’t get me if they make me piss on a plastic jar?”

“This is cleared by the ISU, gets right through the doping screening if you are tested here.” Otabek stashed the empty syringe under his pants. “Some blood work could pick it up, though, but’s pretty specific stuff. They would have to be looking for it, hard.”

“...And it lasts six months, right?”

“...Probably.”

‘Probably’ isn’t good enough, he wanted to say. But of course he didn’t: it was a fucking miracle that Otabek would risk his safety on Canada to help a fucked up russian brat like him.

He tucked his clothes back in a hurry, because damn right he had to sneak back as fast as he could.

“Yura…”

“Beka, don’t-”

He knew what Otabek would say. That he could not come back, that he had to run to some embassy and plead asylum as a political refugee - the kind of shit that got him pissed as fuck. Not that he was some nationalist dumbass, because as far as he was concerned Mother Russia could wither to death from shortage of people, the last one to die might as well kill off the lights.

Truth is, hearing he must run from the Regimen pissed him because fuck yes he knew it was true. Anyone half-sane knew. And he would love to.

But he could not.

He wasn’t like Otabek, whose family had the cash to leave Kazakhstan as soon as shit got real for his omega sibling. He had to look after his grandpa before even thinking on getting out, or the Regimen would take their wrath on his old man. He must find a way to smuggle him out of Russia on relative safety and that would only be possible through skating money.

So he had to keep winning - and even more important, he must delay his presentation as much as he could. 

Otabek had shit to do with his problems, though.

“Eh, dude, ‘m sorry” He mumbled, averting his eyes. “Look, I know. I do, yeah? But I... “ He paused. “I still got six months to go, right?”

“Yura…”

“Six more months, I swear. Then no more. I got this, Beka, six more months is all I need.”

***

 

“Very well, Mr. Nikiforov. Please sign on the marked lines to authorize the financial indemnification for your apartment. You will receive the transaction invoice by mail...”

His apartment was the most expensive thing he'd ever bought.

He remembered his excitement when he called Yakov to tell him that yes, he found the perfect place, waltzing along the then empty living while the estate broker was trying to show him the hall to the rooms. From his window he could see the river, and more to the right the rink’s ceiling.

He had his trophy rack put on the left of that window. All the details of his furniture, décor, he chose it all with his stylist. He paid no mind to the money he’d spend because it was his home, it must look just like he wanted.

It was ironic to see his apartment, bought with his skating money and his endorsements, could fit on a nominal check from the Regimen. All his stuff, all his life boxed and taken to the containers that would take them to the official house he’d live in, as an Adviser of the Sports Ministry at Saint Petersburg.

Of course, he was allowed to keep some personal stuff to spend the night on a hotel nearby. Some spare clothes, toiletries, some trinkets of family value he didn’t want to risk breaking on the go. And Makkachin.

He had to ask official permission to take Makkachin to the official house.

He had to hold his thirteen-year-old companion and plead him to be quiet while a bunch of Regimen thugs walked around his house and evaluate his personal items. Had to keep him outside while those strangers turned his home upside down. Had to ask the hotel owner a personal favor to keep his dog with him on the room that didn’t allow pets, so Makkachin would not spend the night alone on a pet crate.

He did all that was required of him: See his things boxed and moved to an Official House cramped with a team of employees leaded and kept on a tight leash by an Aunt, all of them carefully picked by the Regimen. Have the Aunt to play his housekeeper, his governess and his grandmother, ensuring everything would go just as the Regimen expected. Sign up the papers in which he sold his condo to the Regimen, in exchange of a money he wouldn’t see because it would be cashed on his account at the Official Bank of the Regimen. And after that, he took his dog and his case to his hotel room, where he would have what might as well be his last night on relative freedom.

He took his time on the shower, tucked himself on the bed with Makkachin and grabbed his phone out of his bag.

Of course smartphones had access to internet - now based on a single server tightly run by the Regimen, that blocked any attempts to encrypt or redirect the connection or IP address. Many would try to hack it anyway and set a free channel to the world outside: to fight back, to plan an escape, ask for help, seek his missing beloved ones. Most of them ended on Gulags or shot by a firing squad for high treason.

That’s why his phone was mostly kept on plane mode, because he didn’t get to be who he was by being stupid to the point of sending private messages through state internet or talking or a tapped phone.

It was basically an electronic photo album now.

He selected a folder. Sochi. Banquet.

His most cherished memory. His private act of resistance.

Sochi, his last medal. His last grand prix, though he didn’t know it. His last gala banquet by the ISU, which he secretly hated because of his tediousness - an endless parade of sponsors, sport press, delegation members, authorities.

But not that banquet.

He had just a few pictures. He deleted the most compromising ones, after all he could not ensure the privacy of his data on the Regimen. But he did keep some pictures of a certain tipsy man of luscious black hair and beautiful almond brown eyes, smiling to the camera while showing off a bottle of fine sparkling wine. A skater who broke on the ice, eaten alive by his nerves, but on that banquet his drunken self challenged Plisetsky to a dance-off he won like a breeze. He made music with his body, he had all that involuntary audience at his feet with each sinuous moves of his arms, hips, legs.

Viktor would always remember the silent dare on his eyes, come dance with me. And dance with him he did. He danced, danced and danced; dancing he forgot about Yakov’s exasperated glare on him. The scandalized members of the delegation. The press. The sponsors. The Regimen’s dogs at their door and his machine guns. He forgot the fear, the suffocation, the impending doom over his country, his people. That night, it was only the two of them on the entire world.

Be my coach, he said. If I win, I want you to be my coach. And Viktor knew that then he would be anything and everything he asked, as long as he kept dancing for him. And dancing for him he won the challenge, Viktor would be bound by his word to comply.

His name was Yuuri Katsuki. Japanese figure skater that gave himself way too little credit because there was no way anyone could keep their eyes off him when his body made music like that. And in a different world - a softer world - nothing would stop Viktor from chasing this man until the end of his days.

***

 

Seven o’clock, dash. The phone on his hotel’s room warned him there was a car waiting already.

His new home was ready.

An impressive - and expensive - house. At the door, the household staff was standing behind a middle-aged woman, tall and lanky, dressed on the repressive grey dress that was traditional to the Aunts.

He got off the car, Makkachin’s leash tight on his hand. He felt a tug when the dog halted, whining at the presence of all that strange people.

“Makka, come”, his voice was shaky because he could not think of a way to assure his own dog everything would be fine. For one thing was to play along with the Regimen when everything was about talk and papers; another thing entirely is this tangible fear from being on an alien place, surrounded by the Regimen’s Eyes.

“Viktor” The Aunt stepped up, clutching his face on his bony hands to kiss his cheek as if she really was family. “Welcome to your new Home, blessed by the Lord’s graces. Praise be!”

Once, his late father mused about what would have happened if Stálin were a devout, if it would make him a better person. Well, dad, he thought, we have the answer here - The Soviet Union and the Orthodox fundamentalists have mated to produce an hideous hybrid, this motherfucking nuthouse that was Russia now.

Because it is a goddamn nuthouse, he wanted to scream on the top of his lungs, but he could not find the guts to do so. 

Viktor lowered his face to gracefully reciprocate the gesture.

“Praise be, Aunt.”

Then she proceeded to introduce him to the Home.

She showed in detail where the servants - as she said - would fit on his household: A maid, a cook, a driver that doubled as a bodyguard, Viktor could see the gun under his black suit. Probably all of them were Eyes of the Regimen, he thought to himself. She showed him the living, the hall and the rooms, that she called chambers.

He was to stay at the room on the left to the Main Chamber - which he would only use on the Ceremonies, she said, his gut wrenching over and over. On the Ceremonies, she kept talking, his ‘primitive instincts’ of his secondary gender would fulfill its role so, even amidst the Temptations of the Flesh, there would be the Miracle of Creation.

The Aunt and the entire staff seemed to be of betas, with the exception of him, of course - and the last member of the household.

“This is the womb of your Home”, she seemed to go into a sort of trance, and all of his house staff lined behind her so she would enter the Main Chamber. Praise be, my Lord, she chanted while the door cracked open, and the uncanny and now unbelievably rare scent of a Omega flared on his nostrils. 

Snow, sea, cherry blossoms and Fear. 

She entered the room alone, he didn’t have the nerve to follow. The others, though, approached the door to the point he had to go inside. Beside the Aunt, a shivering figure was crouched on their knees, clad from head to toe on a traditional orthodox habit made of blood red wool.

“Viktorov is the Dam to carry the seed of the Sire! Blessed be the Fruit!” She praised, her hand clasped on the poor scarlet novice’s shoulder that kept their head down, features shadowed by the heavy red veil over the kalimavchi.

“Blessed be the fruit!” The others praised. “May the Lord open!”

Viktor wanted to hit them all until they spilled hot blood.

This is _rape_ , he wanted to yell while hitting them with anything he had on his hands. What the fucking God was that, who allowed an entire liturgy of a rape?!

And they kept praising whatever they called Lord, the poor soul they called Dam still crouched on the floor, the reek of their fear and shame all over their omega scent and no one of those fuckers would wake the fuck up and stop that shit.

The driver, praising along as he was, had a gun.

The red nun’s hands - they were delicate, but manly. The omega nun was a man. An young omega male. His Dam, they kept praising, for he was to be the Sire. They’ve abducted an omega male and made him wear a goddam red habit to be given to him, the Petukh alpha, like a twisted offering. An omega male that eventually was going to have a heat locked on a room with him inside.

They would really make him do it.

“Viktorov”

The aunt patted his head, and only then Viktor realized why he was called Viktorov - Of Viktor.

“Viktorov, look up, the Sire wants to see you.”

She delicately grabbed his chin, baring his face for all to see.

Viktor felt his entire body go numb, the ground vanish from under his feet.

No.

Sochi. The banquet, the ball, two people together smiling to one another as if they were the only ones on the face of the Earth. That smile, the sweet eyes, the hot breath lingering of champagne. Come dance with me, be my coach, come stay close to me, come…

No.

His cheeks were stricken with tears trails, eyes rimmed with red, the dark moss hue of his eyes popping out in contrast. He was crying, of course, he was terrified to death. Viktor wanted to scream, to puke, to run, to disappear; but he did nothing, nothing just as he’s been doing since the beginning. But his body wouldn’t move, he dared not.

For there was his most cherished memory, his hidden treasure. The only moment he dared to dream of something else, an alternative universe in which they could exist, they could simply be. In which there were still children, there wasn’t Eurasian War, the invasion of Japan and China, a gruesome battle to collect the most coveted prize of them all, their fertile beings.

Our efforts on finding someone compatible without much hassle, the Kommissar had said.

They fetched him Yuuri Katsuki.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Psst! Now that you're here, let me know what you found!  
> Also, go find me on my [tumblr](http://hbeing.tumblr.com/), I'm friendly!


	3. Enclosure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Are we back? Yes, we are back! Almost on schedule, also. 
> 
> Anyway. I'd like to first say my THANK YOU to the cutie pies who left me a comment here. Seriously, your comments make my day! I hope you enjoy this chapter - I think there will be some answers in here. 
> 
> And without further ado, on with the show! 
> 
> PS.: I may have gotten a bit too much invested, so now my tumblr has [a tag for the fic](http://hbeing.tumblr.com/tagged/blessed-be-the-Fruit)

**www.crux.com**

News

05/07/2012 - 11:43

 

**Church, state seeing eye to eye in the President’s Orthodox Russia**

MOSCOW, Russia - The Russian Orthodox Church is expanding its influence in what was once an officially godless state - and the President appears eager to harness that resurgent power of faith to promote his own agenda.

The moral authority of the Orthodox Church has grown steadily under the President’s government, who sides with the church in promoting traditional family values. Analysts say the President sees an alliance with church interests as a way to bolster nationalism with belief. They say the approach seeks simultaneously to fill the ideological void left by the 1991 collapse of the Soviet Union and to block any inroads by Western liberalism, which he  points out as the main catalyst for the worldwide drop in fertility rates .

“Not long ago, almost half of the pregnancies ended in termination”, says Vladimir Kruschev, commissioner for Children’s Rights and former Archbishop of Smolensk. “Russia had the highest termination rates of the world. Now that these murdered innocents are sorely missed, so it’s not hard to figure out what’s going on.”

According to data from Demographic Affairs Ministry,  current birth rates would lead to a financial collapse in up to 30 years, and it only gets worse from that. Since the official ban on abortions three years ago, however, fertility rates did not increase as expected.

“Of course it isn’t enough” points out Krushev. “It is necessary to make those children. Bring them into existence under the beneficial influence of a strong family. We must understand that, as a society, we all have a duty to fulfill in the Realm of God, and He expects us to fully comply.”

Tags:  Orthodox Church  ,  Russia  ,  Fertility crisis 

***

 

He smells like chamomile with a hint of honey. Delicate, sweet, heady, the scent he knows so well from his mother is now coming from him.

He runs.

Out, on the cold, feeling the air burning his lungs, knowing the Eyes and the Guards will follow suit. They are coming for him, they are coming to toss him inside one of those black vans he often saw on the streets and he learned to avoid like the plague. He runs but he can’t hide, they are already there, their footsteps closer, much closer, he’s trapped. His chest burns, his legs give in and they are grabbing him already, his voice breaking on his sore throat. They just keep coming, too many to even count. Quiet down you bitch, they say, he tries to reach a knife on one of the Guards’ belts, they twist his wrist, so tiny on their hands and it hurts, oh god it hurts please no please-

His eyes snap open and he jerks up from the bed.

He calms his ragged breath, sucking the air as slowly as he can. In and out, in and out. His pillow and his blankets don’t smell like anything. The throbbing sensation on his shoulder tells him that he’s safe. For at least six months.

It’s the third fucking time this very same dream wakes him up like this. He presents, he’s an omega, of course he is. His mother was. One could say, but your grandfather is a beta, you can present as a beta, but he knows better.

The mirror doesn’t lie.

Russian Fairy, that’s how they call him and not out of reason. He’s small, slender, fair and blonde like the fucking Tinkerbell. His growth spurt may not be over, but he’s sixteen already. Even without his presentation he knows he won’t get much taller than this. And, as far as fiery personalities go, there were never a fiercer being than his omega mom, who died trying to give birth to what should have been his younger brother after countless miscarriages. His father had already disappeared by then. He was eight.

Now he counts his time not in years, but in months. Months from his last shot of suppressants, months to find another way to smuggle them at the risk of his very life. Until people wake the fuck up and toss the Regimen aside, he used to say, because this shit cannot last long. Until he won another medal, until he got money for his grandpa.

But he’s no stupid and he knows that even in months he’s running out of time.

He’s no Viktor Nikiforov, to fancily retire to a nice job on the Ministry. That much he knows. But even if he is like his momma, he’s fierce and brave. He’ll never be another Yuuri Katsuki.

He remembers finding him on the bathroom in Sochi, whining to his mom, hidden in a cubicle. The only omega he ever saw competing and such a crybaby, he thought then, so he did his best to make his point clear to him: either you fight or you step out of his way. Because if there was to be a Omega Yuri on figure skating, for fucking sure it should not be a whiny mommy’s boy flubbing his pretty decent step sequences with sloppy jumps from his ‘nervousness’. Now, last thing he knows about the guy is that he disappeared when the Regimen’s thugs invaded Japan. Some wonder if he’s dead, but no. Of course he isn’t.

He must be on a hot-shot’s house by now, off his chems and on a heat, tied to a bed with legs wide open until they manage to knock him up.

This won’t happen to him. Period. Because even if everything fucks up and he gets stuck on that hellhole and presents, he will be as fierce as his mom, he’ll not go down without a fight. He has his contingency plan.

His grandpa has a gun, hidden in a vault he knows the key code for. He’ll blow his head off before they take him.

He will not be Yuuri Katsuki.

If only he could stop dreaming that he is.

***

  


**Buzzfeed.com/investigations** **  
** We are a global team of investigative journalists reporting to you.

Eurasian War: The New Currency Series

**What ever happened to Yuuri Katsuki? The missing figure skater and the dark tales of Eurasian War**

By Hisashi Morooka  
10/23/2016 - 23:44

Yuuri Katsuki, 24, is one of the few JSF-certified  figure skaters of Japan. He used to train on a top-notch facility in Detroit, where he also attended university and got his degree. His last public appearance was also on his first Grand Prix Final in Sochi, Russia. He placed sixth after a irregular performance in which his strong points were obliterated by his nervousness as a newcomer to the grand event.

“Katsuki is a very talented skater, one of the most talented I’ve ever trained. But Sochi took a toll on him, and he needed some time to figure things out” Says Celestino Cialdini, his former coach on Detroit. “So he came back home, we parted ways for a time.”

Many speculated about a possible retirement as the skater returned to Japan after his graduation, but what happened next is far different from a retired athlete avoiding the public eye.

“Japan was invaded and we got worried about him. I mean, really worried. I tried to reach him quite some times, to know if he was alright. At first he was, but then his town was sieged. Since then I never heard of him again”, said Cialdini. “Not even the JSF representatives were able to track him down. They tried.”

So did his former rinkmate, Phichit Chulanot. “I stayed in Detroit while Yuuri came back to Japan. When the intrusion happened, I went nuts. He used to be my roommate for years, of course I was dead worried. At first we could reach him by his phone, he said he was arranging a way to get his family into safety. He warned me he could  get without internet or his phone would be dead, so he could take a while to reach us back. But he hadn’t”

A fate many people shared after the Russian Invasion on the Eurasian War, according to the japanese skater Minami Kenjirou, now based on the United States.

“Yuuri always inspired me on Figure Skating because he’s an omega like me”, Kenjirou says. Katsuki was secretive about everything concerning his personal life, but his secondary gender is confirmed as such by Japanese official documents. That shouldn’t be a problem on the modern life, and for most of his life it didn’t seem to be.

Kenjirou, however, states that exactly because of this Katsuki would be a target for the russian combatants on Japan.

Due to the fertility drop around the world, much was speculated about suppressants and secondary genders and birth rates became crucial to some societies. But the crisis only deepens as nursery rooms are left to dust, and many were the times this worldwide tragedy was used as a justification to very questionable acts.

Many human rights organizations point that Russia has taken a downturn through religious fundamentalism and birthing there became a patriotic obligation, and rumors of reproductive coercion, imprisonment and even abduction of fertile individuals fly back and forth. Minami Kenjirou doesn't believe it to be a rumor, though.

“My parents are doctors, so is my brother. He was at a fellowship on an american university, so it was easy for my family to make the decision of leaving Japan. But I am aware they all left for my sake.” Kenjirou says. “They wanted us, the fertile omegas they could get their hands on. They didn’t get me because I was lucky. I left early, my family could. Others didn’t fare as well”.

During the first weeks of the invasion, Japan was taken by surprise by the Russian intrusion on their territory on the early days of the Eurasian conflict, right after the gruesome events of Sochi. The response of the Self-Defense forces of the country was swiftly backed by China and South Korea, sparking a near-global crisis that quickly involved many other countries. The conflict is still far from over, but Russia was forced to a retreat after military action and an joint economic embargo from the members of the G20. Japan relies on the astounding discipline of his people to rebuild itself, but the now called Eurasian War took a toll on the country - and it is especially true on the coastal small cities - like Hasetsu, hometown of Yuuri Katsuki.

“It is hard to start from scratch if you miss a brother, a son, a close relative”, says Minako Okukawa, worldwide decorated ballerina who used to live in Hasetsu. “It wasn’t a military invasion seeking terrorists. It was a hunt. There’s no other way to describe that.”

“Hasetsu had many omegas, as most of other small japanese towns. I wasn’t a target because it’s common sense I am, as they said, barren.” Minako continues, with tears on her eyes. She says some managed to escape, but most did not. “I am sure Yuuri was taken away by them. No one heard of him ever since.”

As she claims, the city was almost wiped away by the intruders, most of its population now scattered across Japan. Many of the local, however, went missing - most of them fertile women and male omegas. The Russian Regimen denies any connection with the disappearances, despite the sanctions of the G20 and UN.

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Tags: Yuuri Katsuki Japan Human Trafficking Eurasian War Figure skating Morooka

***

 

The sirens. They were on his ears every time he closed his eyes. Heard from afar, but not enough to make them feel safe because the fact that you hear them is a telltale that they were close.

The driver kept speeding up on the wet lane, tires screeching while the car skidded dangerously on the sinuous road. One particular blunt move on the wheel, Yuuko’s head bumped on the glass.

“Careful, careful!” Someone said inside, but prudence on that road was a luxury they did not have.

The sirens were louder, but what had them terrified was the close sound of gunshots. Heavy weaponry, that much they could tell by their experience. They would shoot them to death, that’s what he thought. One of the bullets burst their rear tire, making the car slide off the road. They were on foot, a good 10 kilometers away from the docks, there were women and children among them. Yuuko had her triplets away from Hasetsu already, but the girls could not stay without their mom, could they?

He grabbed a gun from the open trunk. Other males did the same.

The very last act of bravery from Yuuri Katsuki, he was ready to die with honor for his fellows. But even dying was something he could not do right.

He also didn’t expect surviving to be so worse than dying, did he?

Looking around, there was a chair. A table. The bed he slept in is big, but has no more than one sheet and a rough blanket. The lamp on the ceiling in a simple socket, the heavy wooden window with inbuilt blinds he could open or close, the glass of them is shatter-proof.

It’s not a escape they fear, a Dam - a breeder - would not go far. It’s those other escapes they worry about, those he thought so much about while locked away on his heats, tied to a bed and unable to touch himself, have food or water without the Aunts around, praying and chanting sermons and homilies while he cramped, grunted and moaned for days.

No wall sockets. The lamp too high for him to reach, even standing on his feet on the bed. Nowhere to tie a sheet, not even on the bathroom. The only dangling thing on the room is a pair of chains fixed on the iron headboard, heavy and strong as the chains he was tied to the bed with. On the Cloister they kept him to be _prepared_.  

Once, one of the Novices snapped. She screamed bloody murder at the Aunts: she would never, ever let an old leecher touch her. They were all crazy, that was all fucked up shit, she said. She was taken away, the next day she had a bandage on her right eye. Some novices didn’t have a finger, others didn’t have a hand.

_And if thine eye offend thee, pluck it out, and cast it from thee: it is better for thee to enter into life with one eye, rather than having two eyes to be cast into hell fire._ That was the sermon preached by the Aunt that day.

Ordinary, said that same Aunt, is what you are used to. This may not seem ordinary to you now, but after a time it will. It will become ordinary.

He had his own Aunt now, he was designated a Sire. They dressed him on his habit, vest and cloak, all red; and they took him to a red van at the crack of dawn, so he’d be here on the Sire’s Home at early morning.

All he knew about his Sire was he was to be called Viktorov from now on. A patronymic of his Sire’s name. The fucking irony of small mercies: The alpha who was about to rape him on his heats with God’s blessing had the same name of his long-time idol. Who, by the way, didn’t even recognize him on the only competition they were on the same ice.

The Aunt put him on that room with a big bed, wooden windows with reinforced glass and no ways for him to cut his wrists or choke on a sheet to death. _Behold, we count them happy which endure_ ; she said while prepping him. _Ye have heard of the patience of Job, and have seen the end of the Lord; that the Lord is very pitiful, and of tender mercy._

Tender mercy, his nose could feel the thick and musky scent of an alpha like he felt on very little times on his life. Most of the time people were under meds, and there were no alphas on the Cloyster. He was afraid, terrified, even though he’d always known that would happen - seeing it happen and feeling his scent made it all more real than ever before. The Aunt was out of the room, the Sire was about to come in and-

Viktorov, for he was Of Viktor.

It was _him_.

He jerked his head down, unable to stop the tears. Please, he begged, please don’t let him recognize _me_.

***

 

Put your shit together.

_Put your fucking shit together._

Yakov’s voice was on his head, just like the last time he rescued him from an emotional breakdown. He’s never been one known to be nice to his pupils, so there wasn’t niceties or coddling even for the Living Legend. But it was good. This voice on his head, this urge to reign the control back on his hands even things start to fall apart, is there with him now.

Now, that he needs it so.

“We must understand that the Lord guides us through mysterious ways, Viktor.” The Aunt was uneasy. “This is not the ideal, but-”

“He’s perfect...” It just came out, moving the Aunt into startled silence, and he realized his mistake. “...A strong Dam is more likely to carry my pups to term, and he seems strong enough.”

“Praise be!” She nodded, Yuuri had lowered his head again.

Of course Yuuri recognized him. He’ll think he was a request of his, a sick turn on the ‘be my coach’ drunken proposal to teach him who’s really in charge. His sight darkens at the barest thought of it, his every instinct begging him to kneel, wipe his tears and tell him he will be alright because they will get the fuck out of that house and-.

That would end with a bullet on his head, Living Legend of Figure Skating be damned. Not Yuuri, of course, because he’s far too precious for the Regimen for being disposed like that. He’d disappear into another Home.

He cannot abide that.

They had to talk. He had to let Yuuri know that it is a facade, they must play their game until they find a breach. And sure as hell he must do that before Yuuri gets into a heat. Which he will, eventually. They both will. There’s no suppressants in Russia anymore, they were branded as one of the culprits of the birth rate fall and are now very, very illegal. He didn’t know about Yuuri, but he hasn’t been on suppressants for almost a year.

They didn’t have much time.  

But of course that lunatic hag wouldn’t let her Dam alone, would she?

The Aunt is supposed to be the Dam’s guard. And besides that introduction, he knows the Sire is supposed to be in the Dam’s presence only if the Dam is in heat. Any other contact would be deemed as ‘inappropriate’.

She was there now.

He kneeled in front of Yuuri, reaching for his hand splayed on the floor.

“It brings me immense joy to have you in my home” He brushed his fingers with his own, trying to be as reassuring as possible while he hoped Yuuri could filter something out of his words. “I will do my best to honor you with the deference you deserve and the protection you need.”

Yuuri didn’t look up, but nodded slightly.

“Thank you, my Sire.”

Maybe it could work.

*** 

 

“Viktor?”

The Aunt was at his door, hands clasped together and that nervous smile on her face - like if she didn’t really know how to. Of course she doesn’t, he’d say.

So little time and he already hated the woman.

“Yes, Aunt?”

“I hope you forgive me for intruding like this, I…” She pursed her lips together, fine lines apparent as she seemed to struggle to find her words.

Bullshit, Viktor knew it. A meek and soft woman could be no Aunt. But two can play this game.

“Don’t need to be” He smiled. “How can I be of help for you?”

“You see, this isn’t about me.” She lowered her eyes, contrite. “It’s just that… You know the Devil has its deviant ways to prey on our weaknesses, especially in times like these.”

“Indeed” He levelled his head, not knowing one bit what was about to come. “We must keep our watch with prayer, isn’t that so?”

“Prayer, and diligence” She added. “We must not give in to temptation.”

“How so?”

“We all must keep in mind our roles on God’s will.” She replied. “May the Lord be with us all.”

Viktor felt a hole on his gut.

It was a warning.   


***

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Psst! Now that you're here, let me know what you found!  
> Also, go find me on my [Tumblr](hbeing.tumblr.com), I'm friendly!


	4. Blind faith, sharp knife

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, hello! 
> 
> I am back and, this time, on schedule! 
> 
> Again, I'd like to say thank you to all the comments, kudos and beautiful insights you've been leaving me here since the beginning of this story. And I am so happy I got to do [something](http://hbeing.tumblr.com/post/162454554654/viktorov-the-dam-from-blessed-de-the-fruit-or) because I am that invested on this. 
> 
> Anyway. Without further ado, on with the show!

 

_ “Petya, wait, what is that?”  _

_ “Oh, sorry. Let’s conduct the proper introductions, shall we? Vitya, joint. Joint, Vitya!”  _

_ “Hey, I can’t even stand near one of those things, you know that!...” _

_ “Oooo, re-lax, mister uptight junior sensation of figure skating. They won’t know you’ve been near to us peasants by your pee.”  _

_ “Isn’t that, you know, illegal?”  _

_ “Of course it is.”  _

_ “Teeheehee… Eh, Petya?”  _

_ “What?”  _

_ “May I try some?”  _

_ “No, you  debil . Your papa will kick the living lights out of me. Don’t give me this pout either, you know it’s true.”  _

_ “...Anyway. Petya, I’ve been thinking…”  _

_ “...Yes?”  _

_ “I was thinking about my costumes for my next year programs?”  _

_ “So?”  _

_ “...Some mix of sequins, crystals and black fishnets? Like, based on masculine, feminine...”  _

_ “And lingerie?”  _

_ “Why, maybe?”  _

_ “...Then I am the one smoking and you get high.”  _

_ “I’m serious.”  _

_ “...Then go for it. Bet your coach will lo-ve the concept!”  _

_ *** _

_ “Petya, don’t go. Please, they are-”  _

_ “Vitya. People are there, out the streets, shouting their lungs out against those tyrants. There’s no way I can’t go. See? My incomes were frozen by the government. A new law, they said. And why? Because I am a beta male that lives with my husband? I call it bollocks, Vitya. I’ll go and they’ll have to suck up my shouts as well.”  _

_ “Petya, look. They can arrest anyone, didn’t you get that part they say they can arrest you without a warrant?”  _

_ “I am not a coward, Vitya. Not that I’m calling you a coward ‘cause I totally understand you can’t mix with stuff like that, but me? What else I have to lose? They took my wage already, next time they’ll take what, my house?”  _

_ “...Alright, then. But promise me you’ll get the fuck out as soon as you feel things are getting weird?”  _

_ *** _

 

**reuters.com**

World News| Mon Feb 20 2016 | 7:15pm EDT

**Protesters shot on St. Petersburg Senate Square, government forces opens lethal fire against manifestants in anti-Kremlin demonstrations - see footage.**

**Warning** : The footage linked below may contain sensitive material, view under discretion. 

Two days after widespread anti-government rallies , manifestants in St. Petersburg, second largest city in Russia were met with open gunfire by the official forces. According to press estimatives, at least 150.000 people gathered on Senate Square to protest the new legislature presented by the current Regimen. The most notorious and infamous legislation ensures government officials entitlement for arrests without warrant under the right of investigation against terrorists suspects. There are also rumors of official retaliations based on gender, dynamics, race, ethnicity and sexual orientation. 

Instead of clarifying what the Interior Ministry stated as ‘nonsensical speculation’, the  shocking footage of the official forces meeting the manifestants with such violence reminds none other than the  Tianmen Square Massacre , even in the official secrecy over the topic. The Kremlin denies the use of lethal force against the protesters and discloses no information about injured or arrested people on the manifestation crackdown. 

Tags:  Russia St. Petersburg

***

 

Yakov had said, you have to take some paperwork to Viktor’s place to get your clearances for your assignments at the Grand Prix events. 

Viktor used to live around the rink, on a rather fancy condo near the river. It would be easy to reach him out there, he even used to hang around there with their teammates on a regular basis. The neighborhood, however, changed from then to now. And Viktor Nikiforov, figure skating russian hero, moved out to the fanciest part of Saint Petersburg - where the official houses were. 

Yuri Plisetsky hated to go to that part of the city. 

But there he was, wearing a white long-sleeved tolstovka linen shirt and cotton black trousers under a knee-long wool heavy coat, his hair tied to a low ponytail with a black string. The traditional attire for a prepubescent male on the strict dresscode of the Regimen. Not that people didn’t use to observe such things around his neighborhood, they sure did. But there, a now impoverished part of the town, it was much harder to be so observant due to sheer lack of money to keep up, so people would do what they could and pray to the Eyes find it enough. 

The little things you miss about the freedom you didn’t even know you used to have: His animal prints were thrown away, too ‘flaming’ and suggestive of ‘unnatural tendencies’ even for the young kid he used to be. The only place such ‘excentricities’ would be allowed was on the ice, and even so under the close watch of the Regimen Censors. 

On the Official District, though, the Regimen envisionment of what the future should be is at its peak. Maids, servants, workers and officers could be easily pointed on the streets, along with the Guards and the Aunts. The sole sight of them both made his blood run cold, because he knew what came next. 

Yuri avoided this part of the city because of indistinct red figures guarded like a human treasure, an exclusivity of the Official District and the utmost marker of the power those who lived there could wield. 

The few times he came, though, he couldn’t help but wonder, looking on those red-covered beings, who were those beneath the vest. He could see little else than their faces, and every time he saw one of those faces he tried to find something human on them, something left from  _ before _ . He tried to see if he could spot Mila’s sister, or Natasha, or some of his schoolmates that disappeared. But the Regimen was so much clever on that. The first thing about the breeders is that they were displaced from their hometowns to somewhere in Russia no one would know of them, so no one would empathize with the red-clad vestals walking in silent packs around that part of the town. 

Luckily enough, though, he already was at block of Viktor’s house, and had seen no flock of Dams around. Yet, the sheer amount of Guards around was enough to make him fidget on his toes like he had ants on his pants. He shouldn’t be here, but he had to bring those fucking papers to Viktor. 

He was turning around the corner, and he realized he praised his luck all too soon. 

***

 

_...You, my precious things, are to wear red. All red, from head to toe. Red as Mary Magdalene, because on your repent lies your salvation. For you are all, my roses, salvaged and redeemed to the eyes of God! Within the treacherous nature of your bodies, despite the sinful lives you left behind, you carry the greatest miracle of all: The ability to generate life!... So all that see you in your red vests will know the divine nature of your beings.You, my dearests, are to give life to the barren families of our leaders, the children that will mould the future of Lord’s Realm! _

The red vest makes you invisible. 

People on the grocery stores you run errands at, people on the streets while you walk in groups along an Aunt and a Guard, those people do not look at you in the eye. Instead, they bow their heads and whisper ‘blessed be the fruit’, to what you should answer ‘may the Lord open’. 

Do they know what they’re hallowing to? 

Do they know about the physical torture, the mutilations; how they beat russian into you, how they beat manners into you, until you learn to speak their language with the proper mannerisms, you learn to walk a straight line with your eyes cast down? Do they know about how they shackle you onto a bed on your heat to teach you how to submit properly? 

Do they know? Does Viktor know? 

Do they care? 

Because his life has become this: Doing errands in groups where Dams would only praise the Lord and buy groceries among a crowd of awed people averting their eyes, and being locked on the Main Chamber of the Home while waiting your heat to come. 

Doing errands was better than being at home with air thick of the scent of Viktor. 

God, did he smell good. Musk, pine and snow. He smelled just as good as used to fantasize when he was a teenager surrounded by his posters on the wall. 

When his heat comes, he knew he would beg for Viktor, tied to a bed and all. And that made him feel filthy. Worthless. Weak. 

_ Ungrateful little child _ , the Aunt’s voice chanted on his head just like she used to when she was about to chastise him. I am so sad, she would say, that this is the only way you learn your duty.

Which he did, at the end, because here he was walking home with eyes glued on the floor like the pretty little red pet he was trained to be. And he was somewhat glad no one would look at him in the eye to remind him the coward he was. 

“Is there something you want, young lad?” 

He couldn’t help but look up, uneased by the Aunt’s tone he knew all too well there’s no good from it. There was a boy with a paper folder tucked on his chest, his blue-green eyes staring at him and his face devoid of color. 

He knew the boy. And the boy knew him. 

“So” The Aunt insisted. “It’s a bit impolite to stare like that.”

“I think he didn’t expect to find you here” Viktor was at the door due to the little commotion. “And a bit of impoliteness is all but expected of our little ice tiger, isn’t that so?” 

Then he walked down the stairs to collect Yuri Plisetsky papers himself. 

***

 

“ _...Hey, I know that little one there. Yuri Plisetsky, eh? Russian Punk who thinks he’s such hot shit? Yep, that’s the one!”  _

_ “...What did you just say, you crybaby loser?...”  _

_ “Yuri Plisetsky, Russian Punk who thinks he’s such. a. hot. shit.” _

He remembered Yuuri Katsuki at the banquet. Drunk out of his mind he managed to grow a pair of bollocks big enough to drag him to that stupid dance-off. And yes, he fucking wiped the floor with him, it seems if they let the man skate smashed he’d take the gold medal off Viktor Nikiforov himself. 

Not that Viktor would care much, though. He couldn’t take his eyes off the guy and everybody could see that, much to the chagrin of the officers and sponsors. No one ever had an official confirmation that Viktor liked men. Not that he cared for such shit, but everyone saw how gay he got over Yuuri Katsuki, be damned the Holy Church sensibilities. 

So, now that Viktor was hot-fucking-shot at the Sport Ministry, he could be given a breeder. Who did he choose? 

Yuri, already at home after blurry memories of tossing his papers at Viktor to then drag his ass back, was retching on his toilet, limbs still numb from the tingling of his nervousness and eyes wet from tears he should not be letting out. Not that he was crying, he never did. Maybe the tears were from the sick feel on his stomach because yes, that he would admit, seeing what he saw made him physically sick. 

Yuuri Katsuki was a good skater. Despite his flubbing at Sochi, there was no denying that. Honest to god, the banquet showed everyone that if he managed to gather his shit and skate seriously, he could be one of the greatest, Yakov always said that any trained monkey can jump and spin, but real artistry lies on how you dance on the ice. 

Now Yuuri was locked inside Viktor pretty suburb house all covered in red like a bloody nun, playing sex toy to that self-serving motherfucker that doesn’t have an inch of dignity on him.

His anger got out of him in the form of the contents of his half-empty stomach, burning his throat and leaving a sour taste on his mouth. 

So, that’s what the Alphas do. They might play friends, pals, they might try and show some sympathy while it’s convenient. But as soon as the Regimen hands them something they want they will cast it all aside and grab their privileges as fast as they can. 

What’s left for those like Yuuri? Run, hide, postpone the unavoidable, amuse the Regimen with their pathetic resistance? 

Now the stream of tears were unstoppable, his fingers almost pulling his hair out of his scalp. 

“It’s not fair”, his voice rasped, throat choking because of his sobs. “It’s not fucking fair…” 

The girls from his high-school. Mila’s sister. Natasha. Yuuri. He once told himself he was not going to be Yuuri, he was going to be different. Smarter. Faster. Better.

He’s not. 

He’s  _ them _ , and they are  _ him _ . 

***

 

It was early night, and most of the household was preparing to sleep. 

Supper was remarkably eventless after Yuri’s appearance. He was served by the Maid, the Aunt came to ask him if he needed something. 

Why yes, he did. He needed a gun. A full-loaded fucking Dragunov, to be exact, so he could shoot that entire district to the last living soul. He was sick of it all, the condescending manners of everyone he had met on that district - The Kommissars, the Commanders, his fellow workers at the Ministry, like they were very respectable citizens while they all had a Dam back at home. Most of all, he was sick of himself for allowing this to happen. 

Yuri’s eyes on him said it all. 

The boy didn’t say much, just handed him the papers he had to send to the Ministry of Sports - his clearances to the international events of this year’s Figure Skating Grand Prix. And, granted, he’s never been known for being warm and sweet towards people. But the glare the teen gave him when he spotted his Dam - and of course he would recognize Yuuri - could strip paint from the neat fences of the neighborhood, reducing him to the bone of his shame because what they said, even in silence, rang as remarkably true. 

_ Monster _ . 

His commiseration and self-loathing were clearly not enough to save Yuuri. Because as soon as the Aunt got her answer he did not need anything at that moment, she grabbed the basket of his dirty bed sheets and headed to the Main Chamber. It was time to set up the nest for the Ceremony. 

He could sense Yuuri scent from his own room remarkably well. Well enough to know that his heat was close. And, nested on his alpha pheromones, it would only get closer. However, despite Yuuri being right next door heˋs never been so far from him. The Aunt was playing the role of a wife, even more keen on that because he was still a single man. Inappropriate approach with the Dam would be, as those pious little shits would say, indecent - and oh, how observant were they on decency. 

But still - he had to find a way to get in touch to Yuuri before his heat kicks in. 

Come to think of it, why was Yuuri scent so strong on his room if the walls were made of concrete? It didn’t make sense. 

Unless… 

He stood up from his desk, walking towards the wall next to the Main Chamber. Yes, concrete, and surprisingly the scent wasn’t very strong in there. Looking up, the ceiling was of concrete, too. 

Viktor had grown up in a good house, his father was a well-off barrister. Not as fine as the house he was now, granted, but those houses use to have similar architecture, don’t they? 

His house had an attic that had doors to all the dorms closets, serving as a storage of sorts. He loved to play there when he was a child, exploring the infinity of trinkets Papik the Hoarder used to keep. His papa used to joke his greyish hair was a token from all the times he came out the attic covered in dust.

At his current room’s closet, there it was - an old attic door, sealed with a sturdy lock. To which he would not find a key, of course, but it wasn’t like Viktor hadn’t learned a dirty trick or two on his early teens. So he tried his luck with some paper clips. 

Miraculously, it worked. So up he got into the attic. 

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Psst! Since you got all the way here, might you leave a comment, or a kudos? Please?   
> Also, I'm on [Tumblr](http://hbeing.tumblr.com/), hit me up there! See you and stay tuned!


	5. My Refuge and my Fortress

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, people! 
> 
> I took a week longer than expected to update because of personal reasons, but have no fear - here's the update! Again, I thank all who left a kudos, a comment or a like/follow on Tumblr! As soon as I air the chap, I'll answer the comments I've got. 
> 
> And, with no further ado, on with the show!

He is on the tub, eyes red from crying. 

Yuri Plisetsky had seen him. What has become of him. And now he must think he’s was right all along. He didn’t belong on the ice, he never did. Being Viktor Nikiforov’s bitch, that what he’s good for. 

The water is lukewarm. Never cold enough to give him a hypothermia, not hot enough to burn his skin. Scalding himself to death would not be his first option to off himself, but given no other choice it could do. Of course, however, he has no access to the hot and cold faucets. Nor to the heating system. Russian ruthlessness turned into efficiency - they have every hazardous situation in mind. No way to choke himself, hang himself, cut himself. The Aunt shaves him when needed, they never let him close to a razor all by himself. She cuts his hair, clip his nails. If he stops eating, they might tie his hands and feed him from a gastric tube. 

So he cries, but crying never killed anyone. 

He gets up, wrapping himself on a towel. 

The closet was as bare as the rest of the room. No hangers, no hooks, no belts, just a few changes of his current clothing. Up on the roof there was a apparently sealed attic trapdoor he couldn’t quite reach, the shadow of its former ladder visible on the wall. From the ceiling, though, he could hear some thumps here and there - he haven’t heard anything before, granted, but it must be a rat. 

And who’s on the mousetrap, he asked himself, because sure it was not the rat. 

Come to think of it, how the heck a rat would go up into the attic, but he halted the thought as soon as it formed itself on his head. 

He had done this before, think of escaping. He and other inmates on the Red Cloyster. They took their attempt more seriously than he did, and ended up on the Cloyster yet again, with severed feet. 

The way out of the Red Habit was a black plastic shroud, and a hearse. If you had the chance. 

The thuds got louder, and now there was something clinking from inside the attic door. 

“...Yuuri!” 

A muffled voice from above scared the living lights out of him. 

It was them, they were on the ceiling. They were here to arrest him! He must have said something wrong, did something off and they must think he’s a traitor, so they were up there for him. He wanted to scream but could not, his throat clogged with heavy fear, because he knew for sure what happened to traitors, and on his case he would not be executed on the rope, no. He was a Dam, he wore red, he’d be taken to the gulags to  _ serve  _ there- 

“Yuuri!” The voice, muffled as it was, seemed more urgent. “Can you hear me? Please say you do…” 

The attic door was still intact. The voice spoke to him with an accented english, not seeming threatening but with the Regimen you could never be sure. Was this a test? Were they testing his loyalty? 

He stumbled back, shoes and plastic pots clashing on the floor.”

“No! Nonononono...Don’t go. Please… I don’t have much time. I mean you no harm, I swear. I swear! I-”

“...Viktor?” 

“Yes, I...”

Yuuri felt a vicious churn on his insides. 

“What are you doing up there?” 

“I… I will help you!” 

“Help me...” 

His voice was off, foreign to his own ears, and Viktor went silent; maybe realizing the ludicrousness of he was saying. 

The last time he saw Viktor Nikiforov in person was in Sochi, where Viktor had caught him staring and asked if he wanted a commemorative photo. Viktor didn’t recognize him then. He wasn’t enough of a competitor to be reckoned as such by the Living Legend of Russia, Viktor didn’t care to know the skater he used to be. But he seemed to get well acquainted to the omega he was; apparently as that he was conveniently impressive enough to be recognized by the National Hero of Russian Ice as the breeder which whom he’d enjoy a number of pleasing ruts. 

One of the things about living in almost total isolation, like he was now, is that you have time to think about things. And he did think about Sochi many times. Sochi was on him, totally on him. He failed Sochi all by himself, didn’t he? If he hadn’t, he’d be in Detroit, not in Hasetsu by the time of the invasion. Even his family would be safer, not having to worry about their only omega of the lot. 

“Yuuri-”

A creak on the door denounced the Aunt getting inside his room, and thankfully Viktor went dead quiet as he slowly got himself out of his closet. 

“Viktorov” She said, hands clasped together and voice quivering. “Why are you dressed so scarcely? It’s cold. You can’t be sick.” 

He gritted his teeth. 

“I am hot, my Aunt” He lowered his eyes. 

“Hot?” She replied, twisting her fingers. “On a weather like that?”

“I think it must be my heat?” 

“Your heat?” Her head tilted. “You say, your heat is due?” 

Yuuri hitched his breath, realizing his mistake as she came closer. Viktor’s unease reeked on the room but the Aunt would not realize it, as the Beta she was. But he has been able to smell him for a while now, hasn’t he?” 

“Show me your slick, Viktorov.” 

“I…” 

“Now.” 

His shivering fingers went to his hole, and he plunged them inside and scissored his prostate to milk as much wetness as he could. As he pulled them out, she grabbed his hand to inspect its aspect on his fingers, paying mind to the smell and consistency. 

She released his hand and a sharp slap connected to his left cheek. 

“This is arousal, not a heat.” She said, the faint worry of ver voice gone. “You think I am a fool, Viktorov?” 

“No, I-”

“Have you been touching yourself in here?” She hissed, her hands fisted on his hair. “Is that what you think of your duties, that you are going to seek pleasure for your body? You think of a fat cock filling you up as you beg for more, you little slut?”

Another slap, this one strong enough to push him to the floor. 

“You make little of the chance you’ve been given, to redeem your filthy sins.” She grabbed his hair again, pulling hard. “Should we skip this Ceremony to have you tied down for this heat, then? Would you rather that?”

He shook his head, keeping the tears from his eyes. 

“Blessed are the pure of heart, Viktorov. Those whose evil deeds are forgiven, whose evil sins are forgotten.” She stepped back, heading to the closet. “For they - and only they - will see the Graces of God.”A red wool vest was thrown at his feet, his eyes still shut while he heard the door open again. “Don’t forget yourself.” 

The door was locked from the outside yet again, the silence lingered on the room as he kept crouched to the floor. Slowly, he pulled the vest over his head to wear it as he was told. 

A small creak on the ceiling denounced Viktor was still there, and his chest welled in shame. 

“Go away.” He said, just loud enough for him to hear it. “We’re not supposed to talk.”

“...I am so sorry” Viktor whispered, yet he could still hear. “I am sorry, Yuuri-”

“That’s no longer my name!” He hissed, restraining himself from screaming. “You should know it, as I was named after you.”

“I would never back this up!” Viktor jolted. “Do you really think I’d take part of something this sick? You’re- You’re a fellow skater!”

“How do you know that?” His fingers curled on the floor. “Last time we’ve met on a competition, you asked me if I wanted a commemorative photo with you as if I was a fan, not a fellow finalist, so don’t give me that crap-”

“Yes, I know, my bad, but I already apologized by that, didn’t I? You said it was alright, then!” 

“No you did not!”

“Yes I did, at the banquet! Don’t you remember?” 

Yuuri’s blood ran cold. 

No, he didn’t. 

Actually, he remembered very little of Sochi’s banquet, since he drank himself to stupor that night. And, most of all, he did not recall any conversation of his wasted out of his mind self with Viktor Nikiforov. 

“...Yuuri?”

“I was drunk” His voice was aloof, his nails digging at the skin of his palms. “What did I do?” 

“...You don’t remember?...” Viktor’s voice, until so sounding indignant, now was strangely cautious. “Uh-”

“What did I do, Viktor?”

“You…” Viktor stammered. “There was a… dancing contest, you… challenged Yuri Plisetsky and you won, then…” 

“What else?”

“Yuri enrolled me on the contest and…”  Viktor closed off on a careful silence. 

“ _ What else? _ ”

“We started dancing together…”

“Oh.”

So, it seems he drunk himself out of his skull and started a dancing contest with the russian team, Viktor Nikiforov included. 

A drunk dancing unbonded omega dancing with the russian unbonded alpha Viktor Nikiforov. In a banquet on Sochi, in front of the entire delegation, the Ministry and all, and that’s why Viktor recognized him. 

Many things made sense now. 

“You were sluts” The Aunt once said. “Sluts, all of you. But now you can repent your sins and redeem yourselves in the eyes of God”, and then he thought he never had a chance to sin himself, he never had the chance to even share a bed with someone. 

But he did sin, didn’t he? 

He, a drunk unmated omega, called a possibly tipsy unmated alpha - and well known as a disputed bachelor, as for that - to a fucking dance. The very same alpha that  _ owned  _ him now. 

His throat was burning and his eyes were watering, but he wouldn’t cry. No, he would  _ not _ . 

“So” He said, his voice carefully modulated on the russian he was beat up to learn. “I brought this upon myself.” 

“...What?” 

Viktor’s tone was harsher, the undertones of his scent showing clear distress - maybe because he felt confronted by the attitude of his Dam. His nostrils flared, it was hard to fight the urge to submit and apologize to the Alpha at the state he was, really close to a heat. 

But he could not - would not - allow his Sire add insult to this injury by getting to him as a helpful hand to Yuuri in order to placate his heavy conscience. Even if the Sire was Viktor Nikiforov himself, the man stamped on the posters of his early teens. 

It was true that Yuuri Katsuki failed in Sochi and brought this fate to himself, he could now understand that much. But despite it all, his failures and shortcomings, he missed Yuuri Katsuki, he missed him so much: The Inn in Hasetsu, his mother cooking, his father, his sister. He missed Yuuko, Takeshi, Pichit, Celestino, Detroit. He missed the ache on his feet after a rough day of training, he missed lacing his skates while he prepare to start, the ice on his palms after a fall. He missed jogging around the streets, he missed his old room, his dorm at college. 

Yuuri Katsuki was his last shred of sanity, and he would give it up to no one. Not for the Aunt, not for the Regimen, not for Viktor himself. 

“...Blessed are the pure of heart, whose sins have been forgiven, for they will see God.” He said in meek russian. “Aunt is right, I should not forget myself.”

“No” Viktor replied, still in english. “Please, Yuuri, don’t. I would never do this to you, Yuuri, I don’t want to. Please, let me help. Please…”

“There is no help.” He growled. “My heat is close. You ought to know it, so stop trying.”

He stood up, walking out of the closet. 

“But, my Sire, you can help me if you put a pup on my womb this time. So it will only happen once.” 

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Psst! Since you got all the way here, might you leave a comment, or a kudos? Please?  
> Also, I'm on [Tumblr](http://hbeing.tumblr.com/), hit me up there! See you and stay tuned!


	6. For they will find Hope

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ladies and Gentlemen, here's another chapter! Two days late, but better later than never, right? 
> 
> And I'd like to thank you all that are leaving comments, kudos and are poking me on Tumblr (YAY) because I want you guys as invested as I am. 
> 
> Anyway, on with the show!

“Absolutely unacceptable. Even a dead crab hasn’t a free leg as sloppy as this.”

Seriously, Yuri wanted to scream. Fuck you, Ms. Baranofskaya - as if she’d ever find someone stupid enough to play good ol’Yakov  when he used to be her husband. But, since they both moved into Lilia’s house, it seems Yakov is up to the role yet again, isn’t it? Disgusting.

“Yes, ma’am”, he replied meekly, because what the fuck would he do, and she told him to start from the beginning.

“One more time, this time with feeling”, she said, and _oh boy_ did he want to yell at the world his true feelings, but that would be the least Agape shit to do in the fucking entire Russia.

‘On love: Agape’ was his current short program - an adaptation from one of Viktor’s unused routines, and Viktor himself helped to fine tune the new choreography for it. Of course he knew what Agape means because he’s no _debil_ , but seriously.

He wanted to puke all over the piece because of how ridiculous this shit of ‘unconditional love’ is while the maker of this routine had Yuuri Katsuki as his brand new sexual slave to breed pups to Russia. He barely could hold the retching to the stench of the hypocrisy - far worse than the stench of the corpses displayed on ropes along the city - that he’d skate to ‘unconditional love’ in a country where, depending on who you were, you could disappear from one day to another because you’re not ‘fit’ to live. How’s that for unconditional love, huh?  

The fuck is, however, he can’t afford to feel what he truly feels, so he has to pull up the stupid act of Agape and pretend he’s such a pretty little angel flying on his skates for the glory of the Motherland. And the only reason he’d do it is because he wanted to get to the Grand Prix Final.

It took him days to get his grandfather to go to Ukraine and stay with some family there while he was living with Lilia. He argued he didn’t want him to be alone because that was the entire fucking point of dragging him all the way from Moscow to Saint Petersburg. He, however, didn't have ukrainian citizenship like his grandpa because he was born in Russia like his mom, and that was exactly why his granddaddy was so adamant on not leaving the country without him.

His best shot of leaving? The Grand Prix Final.

So he’d skate at Rostelecom Cup, and he would win. No matter how deep he’d bury his true feels, or how far he’d push his body. He will get gold this time and go to the Grand Prix Finals and win gold there, too. And, as the new star of the figure skating, he’d be as untouchable as Viktor Nikiforov when he goes after an ukrainian embassy and ask for shelter. He’d use his name and fame to protect himself and his grandfather.

A foolproof plan, he thinks, but then his vision starts to darken and he feels a tingle go through his entire body. Hypoglycemia, he knows it well because it’s far from being the first time, but knowing can’t stop it from happening, can it?

“Why did you stop?” Lilia’s concerned tone would only worsen as he slouched on his knees. “Somebody would fetch a medic…?”

“No” The mention of a doctor sent a rush of adrenaline through his body. “It’s nothing serious, ma’am, I just-”

“We can’t have you sick now, Yurochka. So we better take you to-”

“Oh, Lilia” It was Viktor’s voice. “I bet Yurochka has just skipped yet another meal to keep training, he does it all the time even though he knows well he’s not supposed to. Right, Yura?”

He hated the condescending tone of Viktor. Always did. Not that he particularly liked the man before, but God, he abhorred him now to the point he could barely stand his presence. However, abhorrent Viktor Nikiforov has just saved his ass from a potential disaster.

So he nodded, caring to have the grace of looking pissed just to keep verisimilitude.

“Yuri Plisetsky…” Lilia huffed, and he knew he’d have hell to pay when he got home with her. “I’ll check on your meals myself from now on.”

“...But today, Lilia, I’ll take the liberty of treating him a little, he sure needs some extra calories. What do you think of some ice cream? Sounds good, huh?”

He didn’t have a choice, did he?

***

 

Viktor paid him two scoops of chocolate chip ice cream, a rather expensive treat he didn’t allow himself to have in a long time. He had to save every penny he could to collect enough money to his escape and had to keep his weight low. Not that he fancied to be skinny as he was, but he knew very well that could help to postpone his presentation. It sucked, of course, because he loved junk food - and chocolate - but he knew very well he could not let his diet slip at least until he was out of that hellhole of a country.

“You know, I must make some efforts to keep my figure, but you are still a growing boy” Viktor served himself with one scoop of low sugar sorbet. “You can’t afford to lose any more weight.”

“Why are you worried about your ‘figure’?” He replied, mouth full of ice cream because hell, he was hungry. “Thin or fat, you’re still Viktor Nikiforov. You have privileges we peasants don’t.”

“Oh?” Viktor froze his smile in place while they walked out of the ice cream parlor. Once out on the streets, he sensed Viktor would babble some more and he wasn’t wrong. “...Privileges?”

“Yeah” He was no Viktor, of course, and he knew well how precarious his situation was if compared to fucking Nikiforov. But no fucking way he’d let that motherfucker intimidate him, he’s not such a chicken. “Big ass new house, servants to pamper you twenty four hours a day, from cleaning your ass to… Other little _services_. That must be nice, I guess.”

“You guess.”

“I do. You must be happy, now.”

Viktor’s jaw tensed. Yuri felt glad. He couldn’t do much to people like Viktor. But this, he could do.

“Let’s take the longer way, shall we?” Viktor’s voice was even, but his fingers twitched on his arm. “Along the river.”

He kept eating his ice cream, intending to finish it sooner.

Viktor didn’t say much else of his bullshit until they got to the river, where of course there was people hung on the high walls of the bridge - the Regimen had no weak days. Their faces were covered by a cloth with their crimes printed on it. A priest, a doctor, a gay man. He thought he heard some joke like that, once, but that wasn’t the punchline.

That must be scary to people like Nikiforov, of course, but not to him. People like him had much worse concerns than ending on a rope, and that was something he doubted Viktor would ever understand.

“Here are your papers” Viktor handed him a yellow envelope. “Your passport, visas and plane tickets to the NHK Trophy.”

He wasn’t supposed to go to NHK. His next competition was Rostelecom.

His heart went rabbit fast inside his chest.

“Yakov agreed you’d have better chances at the NHK than at the Rostelecom, so we switched places between you and Georgi.”

Yuri’s mind raced. Strategically speaking, his only benefit would be to avoid competing with JJ again. But no way in hell it meant things got easier for him, since he’d compete with Otabek and Minami Kenjirou - who would skate like a motherfucker as soon as he knew there was a russian skater on japanese soil.

“Why” He hissed, keeping his voice from shaking. “Why are you doing this?”

“Yakov-”

“Cut the fucking bullshit” Speaking to Viktor like that would be a hella bad idea. But the fear probably wasn’t letting him think straight, since he couldn’t stop thinking that, whatever the Ministry was planning for him, he’d rather be dead right now.

Why the fuck would they do that? Why the fuck Viktor had to bring him here, among the dead of the Regimen, to hand him those papers?

“Are you trying to get me? Is it because I know who your breeder really is? I-”

“Calm yourself and listen, this is important.” Viktor hissed back as some maids walked from afar. “I am trying to help him. Help you both.”

“Fuck off” He snarled, on the verge of tears. “How exactly are you to help him? By being nice enough to fuck him senseless on his next heat?”

“You think no one is paying attention at you?” Viktor whispered back. “The Peter Pan of russian figure skating? Don’t be such a stupid. I know why you starve yourself and train like crazy. It’s not some eating disorder, it’s because you don’t want to present.”

Yuri felt his blood turn to ice shards on his veins.

“Don’t worry, you fool, your secret is safe with me. I am really trying to help. Yuuri and you. If you think I’m happy he’s there in red, you are so wrong.”

Viktor gritted his teeth.

“I… may not be able to stop… what’s bound to happen. But Rostelecom Cup will be here this year. I can try to get you both on an embassy to seek political asylum, which will be much easier if you are not competing.”

“Bullshit.” He said. “Like, you want us to fucking walk to an embassy under the guards’ nose? They’ll shoot us to death like they did to the people at Senate Square.”

“Not with the international press and delegations on the city, they won’t. Also, that’s why you’re going to NHK trophy, to gather help. Phichit Chulanot will be at Rostelecom. He was Yuuri’s rinkmate at Detroit and has publicly spoken about Yuuri’s disappearance. He and Yuuri’s former coach may help us to get safe to american embassy.”

Us. Because of course Viktor would have to run away too if it works.  

“Phichit won’t be at the NHK.”

“You can get to him through Kenjirou.”

“Kenjirou? You want me to get to Minami Kenjirou and ask for help because I know where Katsuki is? What if he doesn’t help?”

“He will.” Viktor seemed assured, but Yuri knew it was just wistful thinking.

Yuri forced his tilting brain to process and think, fast.

Either Viktor is doing all of it to frame his ass - which would backfire spectacularly, come to think of it - or he came up with this because he’s that desperate. For only desperation would explain such a mess of a plan: probably straight from some hollywood action movie considering the sheer amount of holes and ‘what if’s’ involved.

But Yuri, the boy who eats less and less every day, who lives from one shot of suppressants to another, is no stranger to despair.

Suppressing is a crime likely punishable on the rope, but no one has it stamped on their dead faces along the river because they never kill those who can bear children.

Chances are he and Yuuri will be shot to death before they sniff whatever embassy that might take them in. But dying by a bullet is faster and cleaner than dying little by little under the Red.

“I’m in.”

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Psst! Since you got all the way here, might you leave a comment, or a kudos? Please?  
> Also, I'm on [Tumblr](http://hbeing.tumblr.com/), hit me up there! See you and stay tuned!


	7. Lead us not into Temptation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys. Guys. Really.  
> I know you must be mad. I went MIA and that sucks. For real. The thing is, however, that I went through a major artblock regarding every single fandom i'm in. And slowly i'm working myself back again. 
> 
> Anyway. Now the story's nagging on the back of my head one more time, and here's the result. So far, this is the MOST difficult chapter to write, and tags of dubious consent and psicological violence aren't there for nothing. So I advise discretion about this story from the very beginning, but now stuff's getting a bit more real. By the way, chapter's unbetaed, thus misspells and grammar misshaps are bound to happen. 
> 
> So. Yeah. On with the show.

_“Yuuri! Yuuri… what happened? You darted out of the pub, something happened?”_

_“I… I’m sorry, it was rude, right? I shouldn’t do it on your birthday party. I’m going right back, it’s just-”_

_“Hey, look. I am not lecturing you or anything, but… it was just a hug, right? Or was he forcing himself on you?”_

_“No! No, he was being really nice, it was me who freaked out… I… He wants more than a hug, I think. His smell… He wanted to hook up with me.”_

_“But Yuuri, you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. Sitting by his side and sharing a hug doesn’t mean you have to share a heat with him. And even if you want to, it doesn’t mean you got to bond the man right away.”_

_“...”_

_“Don’t you think he’s attractive? I mean, he’s no Viktor Nikiforov, of course, but he’s very much easy on the eyes.”_

_“I… I don’t think at Viktor like that!”_

_“You didn’t answer my question…”_

_“Uhhh… Yyyyes, he’s nice and all, but… “_

_“But…?”_

_“I don’t know. It’s just… I don’t know. I mean, yes, I know I got out thinking about doing just that, hook up with someone and see how it goes. But...”_

_“...Maybe you aren’t ready?”_

_“No! That isn’t it, I… I am twenty-one now. Like, it’s ridiculous that I, at twenty-one, can’t be able to show some resemblance of sexuality.”_

_“Actually no, it’s not. There’s nothing wrong with that.”_

_“Maybe there is, you know? I… can’t just run away like this.”_

_“You can, Yuuri. Of course you can. And as soon as you do, I’ll have your back.”_

_“...Thank you, Phichit. Thank you so much…”_

_***_

 

His skin was absurdly hot.

Not that he didn’t endure other heats in red before. He did - and his first one chained to a bed on Red Cloyster would never leave his memory until the last of his days. But then, despite the thirst, the hunger and the impossibility of relieving himself, he could say he was more comfortable that now. There were no alphas around.

Now, there was an alpha. The alpha. Whose scent all around him, on the nest set at his bed, was making him hard, hot, dry at his mouth and wet at his thighs.

The maid was already on the room, respectfully staring at the floor. Of course there was no way she could not sense the obscene smell coming from him, even as the beta she was. The Aunt finished chaining him on his back to the bed after covering his nudity by wrapping him with the red embroidered wool blanket of the Ceremony. His head was placed at her lap, as it would be if she was Wife instead. Viktor had no wife and at first he thought that to be a blessing of sorts, but now he’d have the Aunt holding his chains and keeping him still for the first mating.

The driver scouted Viktor inside, he was dressing nothing more than the white linen robe of the sire. His scent sent shivers through his spine and made his inner muscles clench, but still his conscience did not give in. He was aware, painfully aware: Aware of the Aunt’s hands brushing his skin. Aware of the uneasiness of the young maid. Aware of Viktor’s tinges of dread on his scent.

“It is time”, the Aunt said, pressing her palms on his wrists as Viktor was urged forward by the driver due to his visible hesitation. It was time but he wasn’t fully on heat yet, the first mating was supposed to happen before it kicks in. Viktor looked around, realizing the audience wasn’t going to leave the room, ignorant as he was of the intricacies of the Ceremony. Despite that, though, he could sense what his smell was doing to the soon-to-be Sire - and to Viktor’s credit, he seemed truly mortified of his own reaction.

“When Rachel saw that she bore Jacob no children, Rachel envied her sister. She said to Jacob, "Give me children, or else I will die", the Aunt chanted. “Jacob's anger was kindled against Rachel, and he said, "Am I in God's place, who has withheld from you the fruit of the womb?"

The Aunt handed Viktor a cloth drenched on his scent, who was compelled to take it by the driver looming behind him. A scent gift, one of the most intimate and sexual rituals between an alpha and a omega about to mate. In his home country, at least, a scent gift given in public was an absolute blunder of vulgarity. Now, however, his scent was handed to an alpha on the presence of an entire room, upon the blessing of ‘God’ himself.

He was never pious, no. But Yuuri was, as Phichit once put it after he ran from a potential date, a bit of a prude - the very idea of sharing intimacy to someone sounded terrifying back then, so he spent the few heats he had before this all alone, if he couldn't suppress. Alone in his room or on a rented heat hotel, surrounded by his usual heat stuff and a bunch of posters of Viktor Nikiforov.

If only he knew.

“And she said” The Aunt unwrapped his body. “Behold my maid Bilhah, go in unto her; and she shall bear upon my knees, that I may also have children by her.”

Viktor fumbled the sash of his robe, eyes down in shame but the bulge on his clothes making visible he’s already hard.

Yuuri closed his eyes, the silence in the room so heavy he could hear the fabric of Viktor’s clothes pooling down at his feet. He kept them shut as he felt the weight of a body on top of him, a knee brushing his thighs to make room and his senses reeled, he couldn’t resist even if he tried. The Aunt’s hands spasmed under his wrists, maybe because Viktor wasn’t supposed to lie on top of him but take him standing, the body contact restricted to a minimum. Viktor was using his body to cover him, grant him a bit less exposition from the prying eyes of the Aunt over his head. His senses were overheating by the contact, the anticipation of having him in but Viktor was still out, hard as a rock and smelling aroused, then he buried his head on the crook of his neck, his hot breath over his gland whispering he was sorry, so so sorry.

“Oh, god”, he mouthed as he felt the slow slide in, his walls clenching against Viktor’s cock and the breath on his neck halting. Another time, and another, all slow, Viktor doing his very best to restrain obvious demonstrations of pleasure but the hitched whimpers betraying him just for Yuuri to hear. It was the first time he had someone inside him, heat or not, and how many times did he fantasize that? Plenty, some with no one in special, most with Viktor and that musky smell of an aroused alpha. But not like this, he thought as he raised his eyes and fixed them on the Aunt gripping his wrists like a vice with a frown on her face.

No, not like this.

He blinked slowly, then nuzzled Viktor hair with his nose, encouraging him while he clenched his muscles around his cock. Viktor gasped, his teeth grazing his neck as he complied to the new pace he wanted now: harder, faster, better; and he curled his toes as the pleasure mounted. ‘Are you sure’, Viktor barely whispered on his ear and he nodded oh so slightly, as he threw his head back stifling his moans.

Yuuri had a hard time holding his smile back at the gaunt face of the woman looming over his head, her lips pursed on a thin line.

If he was to be Viktor Nikiforov’s omega, if this was really happening and neither of them could stop it, at least it would be like _this_.

***

 

When Viktor was seven, he wasn’t good in most things boys used to be good at. He was either too skinny, or too girly, or too whiny, or too disinterested on boys stuff. Liked his silver-white hair too much, liked ballet and dancing too much. He was different - and his peers made sure he learned it day in, day out. Fortunately, though, his father never bought the shit that ‘boys will be boys’ or ‘this will help him build character’’, and took bullying for what it really was. He moved him away from the ‘boy stuff’ to somewhere else, where he could find a common ground between sports and dance, placating the school board on the need to make a sports boy out of him.

Then he met the Ice.

On Ice, he was no longer the weird sissy that people used to punch. He was a hero. He was a God. He had the World under his bidding, he could be anything he wanted.

The Ice became his sanctuary, his element. It gave him cheers when he gathered a particularly good routine, gave him solace when the world outside hit him too hard. And never, ever failed on capturing the beauty of what he skated for: Life and Love.

Years passed in a row with him training harder, skating better, surprising the audience at each passing season skating about Life and Love. But Yakov - of all people - once told him he needed to live. Outside the ice. Why, he asked, and he said, ‘because one day you may run out of stories to tell’.

On his late teens, Viktor Nikiforov had more medals than any russian skater could ever dream of, but never had his lips kissed. Not even once. So he decided Yakov was right, and ventured outside the ice and into the real world.

He tried to date girls, trying to find the unabashed love he so many times skate about, and found nothing. His eyes kept darting to men, no matter of their secondary genders, and at the time he tried to date a boy Yakov brought him to a private talk on his office. “You can date boys, but you better not show them off”, he said, and Viktor never understood why. But above all things love was tricky, and soon he saw himself going back to the Ice as soon as he could. Life and Love seemed to be perfect on Ice, but on Ice only.

So he kept skating, borrowing Life and Love from Ice and Music.

It didn’t hurt much, the obsessive training and the loneliness. He had the Ice, he had Makkachin. And he knew he wasn’t brave as many of his friends, that came out to profess their love for their special ones even though that love wasn’t the expected. Granted, he had his flings and his urges, but he couldn’t see himself as ‘out and proud’ like people around him. They used to say it was because he’d never found someone that inspired him so, but he doubted he’d ever find them. He realized he was wrong, though, on that banquet in Sochi.

But it was too late.

Numb to the world, Viktor failed to see.

He hasn’t seen the conservatives coming out of their caves, organizing rallies and manifestations in front of churches to protest against everything that didn’t conform to their narrow-minded concepts of the world. He didn’t see the protests growing larger and larger, spreading to radio, TV and internet as the birthrates dropped around the world. He didn’t see the difference - the very same he’d always stand for - become the culprit of choice of the world’s misfortunes. He didn’t see the President and the Kyrill holding hands while the congress passed laws to punish gays, lesbians, transgenders, jews, muslims, immigrants, women, omegas, betas; he turned a blind eye to the guards on the street whispering ‘under his Eye’ to every passerby. Even in Sochi he pretended not to see, daydreaming about Life, Love and Yuuri.

Yuuri, who he had now on his arms, oblivious to the real world while resting from one heat haze from another. He fluttered his eyes, still not rational to his fullest but awake enough to realize Aunt wasn’t there and his wrists were free. “It’s alright, she’s not here”, Viktor shushed him, snuggling him to his chest and letting his scent lull him back to his rest. “You’re safe.”

For now, at least.

His wrists were no longer in chains because he managed to command all the audience to leave the fucking room as soon as they got what they wanted. He couldn’t stand the Aunt’s look at Yuuri when she realized what Yuuri was doing, neither could he abide her nails digging on the flesh of his arms. ‘Go’, he growled, ‘leave us’, for she would have their shared heat and rut, yes, but nothing more. Yuuri let himself drown into his heat, using the pleasure to shield himself the best he could. Indeed, the pleasure was like nothing he ever experienced on his life and God, he almost slipped on his control when Yuuri, out of his right mind, begged for a bond after his knot.

His alpha craved for it. Deep down, it knew - had always known where his Life and Love lies: Right at his arms, ready for the taking.

But that, he couldn’t do.

He couldn’t afford being blind anymore, so he knew. He could see it, clear as day.

Before, back on the attic, when Yuuri pointed he could not forget himself, he was right. He was right on everything. With, of course, the exception of the part of ‘bringing this to himself’ because he didn’t. Viktor brought this on him. His carelessness, his defiance. Now the damage is done, and at least Yuuri must be safe for now. And, in time, free. At all costs. Henceforth, he needed to buy Yuuri time.

Safety and freedom for Yuuri would come at the cost of Viktor’s compliance.

Because he didn’t stop the Ceremony - took part on his role, indeed, and _he knew what it was_ \- Yuuri would not be his. Not now, nor ever. So when his heart pounded and his instincts begged to make Yuuri his mate, he knew he could not forget himself.

***

 

**theguardian.com/uk/sport**

**home > sport > figure skating**

**NHK Trophy receives the Figure Skating Russian Delegation: ISU president says this is a sign of good will of both sides despite the rallies on the streets**

Japanese government guaranteed to keep the politics away from the Stadium

Osaka, 11/10 - 02:45PM

The Figure Skating Russian Delegation made its appearance at Kansai International Airport, being this the first apparition of any official russian delegation in japanese soil since the start of the Eurasian Conflict. As expected, there were popular rallies in front of the Airport, diligently contained by the police and government reinforcements.

The representative of the Sports Ministry, Nikita Rodchenko, is quick to regard their presence at Osaka as a step toward the restoration of the good spirits between the two countries, arguing that the circumstances of the invasion are now in the past. “We are aware that wrongdoings lies on both sides”, says Rodchenko, “but that is the beauty of the sport, where we can set aside our differences and pursuit a new goal as the new nation we are now.”

Indeed, the Russian Federation brings to the competition strong names like Mila Babicheva, ranked as #3 in the world on female figure skating, and the Junior Grand Prix and Worlds Gold Medallist Yuri Plisetsky in his senior debut, bringing a short program choreographed by the Living Legend Viktor Nikiforov himself.

Page **1** 2

***

 

Despite his young age, Yuri considered himself a seasoned athlete and knew well how to deal with the nervousness from a competition in hostile ground. This time, however, he found himself having an incredibly hard time.

Somehow, he managed to go through his short program, On Love: Agape. It wasn’t like he had flubbed it - he scored 92.1, which was, frankly speaking, a fucking miracle given his current circumstances. Because here he was, dizzy as fuck and almost retching on a tiny cubicle at the Men’s bathroom of Osaka Stadium. As he tried to stand up - and fuck yes knew his ailments were solely on him: sore, undernourished and on suppressants he should not be taking if unpresented - his lower belly cramped and it sent a jolt of dread through his brain.

Someone was getting inside the bathroom. Other skater, the clatter of blade protectors a clear sign of that. But not Otabek, the only he’s been able to trust about that. He’s about to go into the ice so no way in hell he’d be here.

What if the suppressants are failing? What if the cramps mean he’s going to present right now?

“ _Oi_ ” A delicate voice hush behind the door, he now could see the shadow of the guards as well. “ _Daijōbudesu ka?_ ”

Japanese, which he knew jack shit of. But It was kind of a blessing, though. It could as well be someone from his delegation. Worse yet, Lilia. Or even Yakov.

“I’m all right” He huffed in english, truly meaning a ‘fuck off’. The other skater stepped away and he knew he should seize the cosmic hint and scram while he still could. The cramps got worse, much worse. A faint sweet smell flared his nostrils; he felt his skin hot then cold, palms sweaty from sheer terror.

“ _Mamochka_ ” Yuri wasn’t much of a prayer neither a believer, but please, please somebody had to help him. He was in a bathroom inside a japanese stadium, some stranger standing at his door and he was going to fucking present.

“Is something wrong?” The same voice again, now speaking a much better english than his. “Please, open this door…”

“Hey...” Otabek’s voice and shit, mom, thank you _thank you thank you_. A moment of silence in which he prays Otabek can understand how trapped he is, and thankfully he does. “I’ve got this-”

“Mr. Plisetsky?” A voice further away, thick with the russian accent from one of the Delegation scouts. This is it, he thought, but then he heard the stall’s door right next to his close shut. “Is there…”

“He’s at the bathroom” Otabek said.

“The smell…” The scout pointed the smell was getting stronger, purposely so. It didn’t come from him - at least the most of it, no.

Shit, the skater by his side - he had to be Minami Kenjirou.

“He’s helping the japanese skater” Otabek said, his tone surprisingly deadpan given the lie he was telling to a fucking guard. “He’s the only one who can, since he didn’t present yet.”

“Mr. Plisetsky-”

“Mr. Officer…” Otabek cut him in. “The skater is an omega and… he’s a bit distressed and you… you smell too strong here now? I’ll let Yakov know where he is myself.”

The guard didn’t seem to move.

“You better go, Officer” Yuri said in russian because this crazy shot was the best one he had. “Sure you don’t want an incident between our folks and an omega, eh?”

The officer huffed, leaving at last, and he could feel the tension hurling away from his body in waves. Yet he dared not to say he was safe.

“Yura” Otabek’s voice was now close to his stall’s door, much shakier than before. “Open it. Now.”

He barely could feel the cold touch of the lock on his fingers due to the tingling. He didn’t want to come out. He was afraid, so very afraid, but he couldn’t stay there. Otabek was right as fucking always and God bless him because he’d never, ever be able to pay for everything Otabek has done for his sorry ass.

His stall, however, wasn’t the only one to open up and both him and Otabek were staring at the Japanese Ace Skater Minami Kenjirou, the actual source of the sweet candy smell at that bathroom.

“Kenjirou, um, could you…”

“Not a chance” The skater cut Otabek off, crossing his arms with a scowl firm in place. “If you guys used me to cover up for the Russian Punk, the least you can do is tell me why, no?”

Russian Punk, Kenjirou said. The dismay plain on each word, and not out of reason. He couldn’t even look the japanese in his eyes.

“Look, Kenjirou...” Otabek faced the omega. “He’s not like that, right? I wouldn’t be here if he was. I have a sister. We had to run away as well.”

“I see” Minami seemed to soften a bit. “But, still.”

“You helped him, too.” Otabek almost whispered. “You got inside and used your smell to scare him away, so…”

“He was smelling... funny.” Kenjirou said, to what Otabek said nothing. But his face said it all.

His heart was pounding out of his chest.

Otabek’s secondary gender was a mystery to him. Like most skaters out of Russia, he was heavily suppressed and his scent was muted. If he was a beta, though, he wouldn’t feel scents as well as alphas and omegas would.

Like he did.

He’s been always good at picking smells, though he’d never told a soul about it. Not even his grandfather. Because between an alpha or an omega, it was fucking obvious what Nature had in store for him.

Minami came closer to his door, gently pushing Otabek aside. The japanese was a tiny little thing with sugar lollipop smell, cute to the bone like omegas are said to be. Except for the hardened glint on his big almond-shaped eyes. That, too, supposed to be cute as shit, but he had seen too much, been through too much. A tiny japanese Omega forced out of his country, getting away from being trapped and trafficked to Russia by the luck of having family living on the USA. His eyes were letting clear as fuck he would not forget that when he had a russian in sight, and hell, wouldn’t he do the exact same thing?

“Whatever you do” When he finally spoke he could recognize his own voice, broken and shaky, unbecoming of a self-proclaimed Ice Tiger. “Please, don’t let the trouble get to Otabek. His family can’t go back. He… His sister, she can’t go back. They’ll catch her if she does. Please.”

“My people didn’t have that chance” Minami said back. “I know people that are missing. Gone because they couldn’t get away in time like Otabek’s sister. Like me. Why should I help you run away from that god forsaken hellhole you call your country?”

“You won’t help me” He gritted his teeth, the tears impossible to hold now.

“Yura” Otabek replied urgently. “Please. You can’t go back.”

“Otabek is right, you can’t.” Minami said, voice lower than ever because he didn’t want to be heard. “My brother is a doctor, he’s specialized on secondary genders. I am not him, but I don’t need to be to know something’s… off with you. Right?”

Minami wouldn’t voice the question, ‘ _are you on suppressants to keep unpresented’_. But he knew, and anyone would as soon as they laid eyes on him now. What he was doing was risky, not only for his health.

All things considered, and if Minami were up to help, this near-presentation - or whatever shit his body was up to now - happened in russian-hostile soil, a much better perspective than back at the motherland. He could ask Minami to get Celestino. He could ask asylum and ask his grandfather to get the fuck away from Ukraine.

He had a good chance to be alright.

“I can’t, Beka.” He took a deep breath, closing his eyes shut as he felt the tears rolling down his cheeks. “Not yet. I’m sorry.”

“Yura, your granddad will be fine!” Beka replied urgently, and he could sense the distress on him. “He’ll be better off if you don’t go back, he will-”

“I know” He said to Beka, his beautiful Beka he’d never allowed to think about regarding his true feels. “He’s at Ukraine. I sent him a message to fly away to France, England, whatever. It’s… It’s not because of him, Beka. It’s not.”

He sniffed back the tears and the snot because fuck yes he was scared to death and he was crying like a baby, but he had to do it.

Minami was right.

His people didn’t have the chance to run away. Many russians didn’t as well. They were now gone from the outer world, trapped on a nightmare they all knew of but pretended not to exist; but Yuri couldn’t do that. The red ghosts on the Official Districts had a face to him, a face he’d never forget if he turned his back to run away for his life.

“I dare not ask help for him, Kenjirou… I’d never. I know what those fuckers did, what they do.” He whispered between sobs. “I need to go back because there’s someone we need to help. Someone you know.”

He felt the japanese’s breath falter, the jig was up.

“Yuuri Katsuki. I know where he is.”

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Psst! Since you got all the way here, might you leave a comment, or a kudos? Please?  
> Also, I'm on [Tumblr](http://hbeing.tumblr.com/), hit me up there! See you and stay tuned!


	8. Nolite the Bastardes Carborundorum

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 - Technically speaking, “Nolite te bastardes carborundorum”—a phrase found in Margaret Atwood’s novel The Handmaid’s Tale and, more recently, its TV adaptation that was just renewed for a second season on Hulu—means nothing. It’s a made-up phrase in mock Latin—a schoolboy’s joke, as it’s explained in both the novel and the series. If it were a real phrase, it would roughly translate to “don’t let the bastards grind you down.” Outside the world of the book, the phrase has taken on a life of its own, as a sort of feminist rallying cry for women—and even within the book, it inspires Offred to fight back against the repressive powers that be.  
> [Source](https://www.vanityfair.com/hollywood/2017/05/handmaids-tale-nolite-te-bastardes-carborundorum-origin-margaret-atwood)
> 
> ***
> 
> So, yeah, I am back. I spent almost a month out of online life, mostly, and also trying to sort things out about this story. Turns out that this chapter was a total bitch to write, but here we go.   
> Next one will come in one week or two. News, if you will, will be on my [tumblr](http://http://hbeing.tumblr.com/)

“Kommissar?” 

The same Kommissar from before. As it seems, someone he has to (must?) report to. Confirm or deny what the Eyes had seen, and wait for his fate. 

“Komrade Nikiforov, thank you for coming, I understand you have a lot to do since the Rostelecom Cup is almost upon us. I promise to not take much of your time, please have a seat.” 

He did, fighting back the dreadful sensation of  _ dèjá-vu.  _

“You spent a week away, I was told. Your first Ceremony, I presume? That’s good news.” The Kommissar hummed his approval while sipping his tea. Chamomile, by the smell of it. “Seems that the efforts of the Internal Affairs Ministry paid off quite well. Would you like some tea?” 

Viktor forced the grimace out of his face as the other gave him a rather knowing smile. He accepted the tea, though. 

Viktor had come to this: Living off of lies, manipulation and power games while people he cared about were in danger. Becoming a man like the one in front of him, gleefully smiling as he hinted he spent a week raping a Dam. It was doing things to him, the smell on his room, constant dreams of claiming Yuuri, making him his by teeth, knot and spawn. 

He came to the point of envying men like the Kommissar, because their life was easier. 

“Anyway” The bureaucrat handed him some papers. “I called you here because it came to my attention that you asked for direct intervention on an incident in Osaka.”

“Hardly of importance” Viktor nodded. “If not for the Officer’s lack of proper tact.”

“Proper tact?” 

“On handling a sensitive situation.”

“Sensitive indeed” The Kommissar said. “The Officer tells, though, that it was Mr. Plisetsky who didn’t follow the proper instructions.”

“In which he was right, and the Officer was wrong. That’s why I asked for intervention through Mr. Feltsman.” 

“Our Agent-in-field said, though, they intercepted a communication between Plisetsky and his immediate family at Ukraine. According to their report, Plisetsky asked his grandfather to leave Ukraine to go to somewhere else on Europe.”

“Oh.” Viktor did his best to keep the blood on his face, freezing the nonchalance on his demeanor. “The intelligence thinks he might be planning to defect?” 

“I think this might have crossed their minds, yes.” 

“And he would do that in Japan, inside a public bathroom, aiding a distressed omega alongside a fellow skater? Please. Instead, our so-called ‘agent-in-field’ almost sparked an incident on japanese soil.” 

The sentence came out in a soft, modulated voice, as if they were idly talking about the weather, and not discussing an official report that could represent a very real threat to Yuri Plisetsky’s life, figure skating next big-name or not. 

The Kommissar, though, was a bit surprised. 

He shouldn’t be. Did he really think that, despite his contempt, he couldn’t play their game? 

“Mr. Nikiforov” The Kommissar finally said. “What’s your opinion on Yuri Plisetsky?” 

“He is a very talented skater, Kommissar. The most talented of his generation, hands down. A great asset for our Motherland, as for our supremacy on Figure Skating.” 

“Still an unpresented lad, though. In direct contact with an unsuppressed omega?”

“As I know it, that was exactly why he aided the omega in first place. A fellow competitor from Japan, who could be even more riled up at the presence of an unsuppressed alpha official.”

“Ah, the lack of tact you mentioned before.” 

“Yes” Viktor hummed. “Precisely.”

The Kommissar had to take it, he knew he wasn’t wrong. However, it didn’t mean he would be satisfied without the blood on his hands. 

“Regarding Plisetsky, still. He’s what, sixteen?”

That awful, awful man. He was going to do it. He was going for the blood. 

“I think so.” 

“Of age to be a man.” 

“He didn’t present yet, therefore he’s still a child. Prone to childish behaviors, like the contact between him and his grandfather showed our Intel.” 

“You think it to be ‘childish’?” 

“What else?” Viktor nodded. “If he planned to defect, he’d done it the minute his grandfather set foot on Ukraine, isn’t that so?” 

The Kommissar hummed. 

“Tell me, Viktor…” The bastard gaped at him, elegantly sipping his tea. “I may call you Viktor, right?” He granted the permission with a nod.  “How old were you when you presented?”

“Fourteen.” His throat was bone dry and his heart was thumping, but Viktor would not let it surpass his defences and show through his face or his hands, steady on his own tea cup. “Almost fifteen, I suppose.” 

“And you skated just as much as Plisetsky, didn’t you?”

“No, not really.”

“What do you mean, not really?”

“When I was on my junior years, Yakov was very strict about the jumps I was allowed to make, and did not abide the most strenuous ones. Hence, my last junior short program had four triple jumps, two of them on combinations.” 

The Kommissar raised a brow. 

“...Yuri’s gold-winning program had five triples and two double-double combinations. Now he’s a senior, so he will be allowed to do quads.”

“Quads...” 

“Quadruple jumps, yes.” 

“...I fail to see your point, Viktor. You, as any athlete of the Motherland, trained from dusk to dawn except on off days.” 

“Which is true, Kommissar. I did. But my programs were less demanding than the ones young athletes like Plisetsky do now. But that’s on me, too - on my days, no one dared to put four triple jumps on a short program. I raised the stakes. That made me who I am.” 

“And?”

“It worked for me, but I received a great deal of criticism from other delegations. They said a skater isn’t supposed to push their bodies this far, I countered by doing all the quadruple jumps there is on a single program. But it didn’t change the fact they were right.” 

“But Plisetsky…” 

“Trains from dawn to dusk, like and did, and more. He is able to perform now programs even I wouldn’t dare, then. Make no mistake, Kommissar, it takes a toll on his body. That’s why he’s unpresented at sixteen. A late bloomer, whose maturity the sport is postponing even further. This is what makes him so unique: A senior competitor with the grace and elegance of a boy.” 

“You were graceful and elegant being a presented alpha.”

“Thank you for the compliment, Kommissar. Indeed I get your point. I fear, however, that might not be the case of the young Plisetsky... As he matures, the advantages of his childish body will go away.” 

“And you think he’ll not be able to keep up.” 

“That’s a possibility, and it has happened before with many other skaters.” 

“I see…” The bureaucrat mused. “But isn’t that… unnatural?” 

“The very nature of an athlete’s body is to do unnatural things.” Viktor said. “If Plisetsky’s body has its way of being unnatural by doing us the favor of postpone his presentation, the better for us.”

“But, just as yourself, Viktor, Yuri Plisetsky has other duties to the Motherland.” 

“I waited until my late twenties, Yuri can wait a bit as well.” 

“...What if he’s an omega? We used to have omegas on Team Russia.”

Viktor swallowed the lump on his throat. Natasha, she was an artist on the ice. Yuri, he’d be just as fierce after he presented, and more. And Yuuri. Oh, Yuuri would mesmerize the world, had he just another chance with the proper training, the proper care. 

But not this world. No. This world, it didn’t deserve to be mesmerized with the most beautiful things. 

So he’d play his very best game to act on it. 

“Oh, Kommissar.” Viktor scoffed. “An omega? Winning medals? That’s rich. This entire incident is all about what omegas are good for, and it’s not figure skating. So, as you can see, Yuri Plisetsky cannot be one of them.” 

“Indeed, Komrade.” The Kommissar rested his cup on the table. “But, what if he is?”

“Then he’ll present as such and fulfill his duty to the Motherland, as you just said.” 

The man eyed him from head to toe, pondering his possibilities. Viktor sustained his gaze, a weird power play that he refused to lose. The Kommissar wanted his win because it would make him - an unremarkable man, with unremarkable deeds other than oppressing his own people - feel  _ oh so important _ . Viktor,though, wouldn’t lose because he can’t. Plain and simple. 

“Very well, then.” The Kommissar finally said. “But you are to have Plisetsky under special surveillance.” 

“I’ll get those terms to Yakov, then.”

“Oh, no, Komrade Nikiforov.” He hummed. “You do it yourself, the boy is to live on your Home. Or would you think it to be a problem?” 

“No problem at all.” Viktor said, smiling. “Actually, much the other way around.” 

***

 

“Blessed be the Fruit.” 

The Medic’s voice startled him out of his thoughts. 

“...May the Lord open, Sir.” 

“Praise be.”  The man’s voice was just as much bored as if he was talking about a dull rainy weather, not praising the Almighty Lord thyself. Yuuri couldn’t even see the man behind the surgical pouch, but his head must be now in the middle of his naked spread legs, laid as he was on a gynecologic table of sorts. 

“Open your legs a bit more.” He felt gloved hands touch his inner thighs. 

The Medic’s fingers unceremoniously slid inside him, sparsely slick with the cool lubricant that smelled like hospital. 

“Your heat” The Medic was taking more time than expected. His fingers kept sliding up and to the sides, not without some friction and Yuuri flinched a bit. “Your heat,” The Medic repeated, rather annoyed this time because of his silence. “Was it adequate?” 

Tears welled his eyes up, his fingers crumpled the red wool of his vest. 

Heat, he said, not Ceremony. Was it adequate, he asked, then actively delving into rich details. Did the sire give you plenty of orgasms? Did the know feel well on your inner walls? How would you describe the feeling of satisfaction thereafter? All that inquired on that dull voice of a bored health worker, a stark contrast from the idolisation of his role. He felt, however, just as much as an object. 

He swallowed the lump on his throat, crushing the emotions down as he answered the questions. Maybe not feeling would be safer, less painful. 

The doctor walked away from the table. His legs, however, were still trapped on the table’s leg holders, and he kept waiting that the Medic would untie the leather buckles to set him free. Apparently not, though, as he could still hear his scribbling on the papers of his medical records. 

“...Viktorov, right?” The Medic verbally addressed him instead. “Is that your name?” 

“Yes, sir.” It is now, he thought, but that he could not say. 

“I can’t quite recall a Commander named as that. Let me see… Oh, right. Not a Commander, alright. Viktor Nikiforov, the figure skater. Now it makes perfect sense you are a male.” The man chuckled, obviously talking to himself as his male parts were dangling at his view. “What makes this even more interesting.”

“...Pardon, sir?” 

”I will have your Aunt here.” 

Is there a problem, he wanted to ask while the man finally freed his legs, but he knew better than that. He knew better than asking anything, he knew better than sitting up and facing the man who had his fingers inside him just a few moments ago and didn’t even bother to tell him what he found out. Instead, he had his hands clasped on the table borders, cold and trembling while he heard the Aunt coming inside the room. 

“Praised be the Lord, sir”, he heard her say. 

“Under his Eye” The medic answered. “Have a seat, ma’am.” 

He could hear the chair scratching the floor, the awkward silence after. 

“Well.” The medic’s voice cut in. “I was just analyzing the records I’ve got here, since it’s a rather uncommon situation. A male foreign omega with no prior history of successful pregnancies as a Dam. Normally it would be usually more suitable for… other roles.”

Like the whorehouses, where he would be what they called a Jezebel. Not a whore, sure, because whores tend to get money in exchange for having sex with people. Of course he’d not do that. He’d have to have sex, heat or not, with dozens of people a day. That he knew. But he wouldn’t have a single penny in return. 

“Indeed.” The Aunt sounded apologetic. “An… unusual situation. But it was said that this was an… Internal Affairs Bureau’s arrangement to accommodate Mr. Nikiforov’s personal preferences.”

“Oh” The Medic said. “We’re talking about a national hero, then.”

Back in Hasetsu, when people came to see the russian invasion for what it was - a hunt for potentially fertile people so they could kidnap them - they weren’t discriminating about genders. They were after anyone they could get their hands on. But at russian soil, all of a sudden they were very offended he was a male japanese omega. Pederasty, as they called it, was a capital crime. When he was taken to the Cloyster, he was treated worse than the female inmates.  _ Yapochka pédik _ , even the female red novices would say - those who would comply to the religious indoctrination they were fed with. So why the fuck did you drag me here, he wanted to scream, if no respectable Commander or Kommissar would even touch him? The Aunts at the Cloyster used this against him as well, stressing that he was very much lucky to be there, being prepared to be a Dam instead of becoming a Jezebel. 

“Sometimes the Lord works in mysterious ways”, the Aunt’s voice sounded cryptic, but her meaning was clear. 

The Lord’s ‘mysterious ways’ were much softer to ones than to others. 

“Indeed, impressively so.”

“What do you mean?”

“It was only one heat, and the Dam is with child.”

***

 

It was the third time he packed his belongings to move away from home. 

First, he and his grandpa moved from Moscow to Saint Petersburg. They left their old house to rent a cheap shoebox apartment close to the rink, hoping it raised the perspective of his career. 

When he first got there, he couldn’t imagine a place so small could feel so chilly, blame it on the crappy insulation. But, despite the cold and the lack of space, that cold tin can felt like home because he had his Grandpa with him - and it wasn’t like they both never weathered out torn situation to come by.  The cold, though, was bad on his Grandpa’s back, so he promised his old man that as soon as things got better they’d move out to a bigger, warmer place. However, when that day had come - and he could raise consistent money out of state aid and endorsements - his Grandpa wouldn’t even talk about it. Instead, he too worked himself to near exhaustion, taking extra shifts as often as he could to save money, all the money they could gather. He asked, why do you work so much you stay most of the time away from me? His Grandpa didn’t answer right away, but later on he said he was afraid something bad was coming on. He didn’t understand, the stupid little brat he was. He was competing and he was winning, Yakov was a pain in the ass but he was clearly their best shot at Juniors, so what’s so bad about to come that could keep his Granny to enjoy a little bit of the skating money he could get? 

To that, his Grandpa’s only answer was hugging him tight like when he was a small boy just about to lose his mother, and then he worked even harder. 

He was almost fourteen, a year or so before Sochi, but his Grandpa could already sense the unsettlement rampaging through Russia. When Sochi came - the attacks, the martial law, the Senate Square shooting - his Grandpa said nothing about it. Instead, he taught him to open his old safe. There were cash money, papers of a bank account at Ukraine where all their savings were tucked in, bullets and a gun.

Then, one day, he was told by some representative of the Sports Ministry, pack your things and move to your coach’s house. It took him days to make his old man’s rusty mind that he should leave Russia as soon as he moved out their apartment, under the guise that he couldn’t be all alone in that tiny little thing they lived in. He told his old man he’d be fine, Yakov might be an ass from time to time but hey, they trusted the man from ever since he was six or so. Yakov would not sell him out to the Regimen. 

Much the other way around. 

Yakov had, somehow, tucked himself into that bathroom in Osaka. He got awfully close to panic in front of Minami and all, but Yakov seemed absolutely not impressed at the possibility of him being an omega. He was, though, adamant on getting him outside the stadium and inside the Ukrainian embassy. Actually, he said he had this planned for a while along his grandfather, and that somehow made his eyes sting. 

Minami, though, talked Yakov - and Otabek, for what’s worth - out of it. 

He argued that Japan, as hostile to Russia as it was now, still was cramped with Regimen troops and had sympathizers spread all over. Really pretty easy to be abducted on japanese soil and be sent straight back to Russia, giving the Regimen the perfect alibi to cover up for his disappearance - a defector gone missing in Japan. That’s why, for one, Minami hadn’t come back with his family. In fact, he said, people were still leaving Japan because it wouldn’t take long until the Regimen strikes again. 

But yet before the Regimen attacked Japan one more time, they would wipe Ukraine out of the map. That, of course, wasn’t Minami’s line - it was his. 

Ukraine, Kazakhstan, Japan, China, all the countries of Eastern Europe and Southern Asia, nowhere was safe for a presented russian omega. He was born Russian, the Regimen would demand his extradition and no other country than USA or Canada would deny them. So his best chance was Celestino, and he doubted Celestino would put his ass on the line for Yuri Plisetsky the Russian Punk. But he would for Yuuri Katsuki. Minami said Celestino has never given up on finding his lost pupil, so he could play with that. Like, yes, the plan was still ridiculously risky and chances were still at odds, but he had help now, he wasn’t entirely alone. Minami even fetched his brother, who was smuggled inside the delegation building by Yakov and finally adjusted him a fine suppression plan to remain ‘unpresented’. He could even eat a bit more, and that would always lift his spirit. 

He didn’t count, though, that as soon as he stepped on russian soil, he was ordered to move out again. This time, to Viktor’s. They knew about his call to his Grandpa, they didn’t trust him around Yakov and Lilia anymore. He’s never seen Lilia that close to tears, when they learned about his moving to a house full of Eyes and an Aunt. She promised to take care of Potya, since he wouldn’t take the cat to Viktor’s house. Yakov didn’t cry, but he snuggled him just like his Grandpa did that day, when he started to realize what could be of his grandson if he turned out to be like his mother. Protected along the embrace, Yakov whispered him to remain calm. 

He was doing his best, but his best was not much. 

Viktor’s driver greeted him at the door, along with the Maid - Viktor was nowhere to be seen. They both stared at him without a word, from head to toe, and he kept his mind busy with a mantra on repeat mode. 

Calm down. 

Then, the Maid took him to the living room, ordering him to wait until she took his luggage to his new room. The Aunt was waiting. 

“Blessed be the Lord God Almighty, young lad.” 

“Under his Eye.” He murmured. “Where’s Viktor?” 

“Mr. Nikiforov” She stressed the honorific and his last name. “Couldn’t be here to greet you, unfortunately. There are some rather pressing matters requiring his immediate attention, now.”

“Oh, really” He muttered mostly to himself, but the woman managed to listen to him - her frown was a clear indication of how she disapproved his manners. 

“It happens, my lad, you came in a special day. Very happy day, indeed.” A huff of wind raised from her a faint smell of cherry blossoms, a smell not her own. “The day we have a proof of the Lord’s grace upon this Home.” 

His blood ran cold on his veins. 

The hag was smelling like omega, like Katsuki. 

Only one thing about an male omega would put a witch like her that happy. One only fucking thing, but that could not be possible. 

Her bony fingers touched his cheeks, her smile didn’t match her eyes. They were downright scary, a deranged gleam to them, and he felt they, on their insanity, could see right through him. His unease, it must be showing across his face and she must be reading it all on him, clear as day; but it wasn’t possible. She wouldn’t know, couldn’t. 

He had the looks of a pre-teen. The smell of a pre-teen. He knew exactly what that hag would see on him. 

That couldn’t help the fear from pooling on his guts.

“One young skinny lad, aren’t you. Not very observant of manners, too. I noticed.”  She hummed. “I’ve seen some like you. Full of talent, full of will, but lacking proper guidance. It is always a sad thing to see, what people do to each other when lost and confused. Everyone has a path under their feet, traced upon them by the Lord thyself.”

There she was, accessing the work she’d  have on him: Russian Punk, figure skating brat. He was somehow relieved, if that was all she could see on him - and not the sheer terror of having his worst fears proved true. 

Again, he told himself over and over it simply couldn’t be. 

No, not even omegas in heat used to get knocked up after one heat nowadays; actually much the other way around. Not even the systematic raping system they assembled through kidnap and enslavement seemed to guarantee the baby boom the Regimen craved so much, forcing the Regimen to feed the people all its moral jugglers to convince that enslaving people like him - who had the chance to bear children - was absolutely necessary to the survival of Russia. It was his biggest hope at the beginning, that finally the Regimen would run out of excuses and the people would wake the fuck up, then the Regimen tightened the leash instead of showing signals of weakness, leading to his situation here and now. 

So, all things considered, there was no fucking way Katsuki would be pregnant after only one Ceremony. 

“Sorry, I…” He halted his breath, he could not stutter in front of her. “I really thought Viktor would be here-”

“Yuri!” Viktor’s voice chanted his name as the man barged in, just as smiley and charming as a daddy-to-be. “You’re here!” 

“I… am” He grimaced. “You should’ve known that…?” 

“I should, I’m sorry. It’s that I got stuck at the Ministry due to the preparations and I kinda completely forgot you were due to arrive now.” Viktor smiled as he approached for a kiss on his cheek. “You know I forget stuff, sometimes...” 

“Yes, Viktor, I am painfully aware.” 

Viktor’s face lingered a bit close to his ears, almost imperceptibly so.  _ Do not fuck this up _ , Viktor whisper was so faint he could swear it was just his imagination. Maybe it could be, a desperate hallucination of an utterly fucked-up boy, that the even more desperate plan concocted by that alpha was still on. 

“But don’t worry, I will make it up to you. How about a walk outside before? I can buy you more ice cream!” 

“Yeah, that would be cool.”

“Indeed the lad could use some ice cream” The Aunt piped in. 

“Oh, I see out Aunt has already given our most prized guest a warm welcome to our Home. Haven’t you not, Aunt?”

“I most certainly have, Sire” The hag nodded. “I was even telling Mr. Plisetsky that he couldn’t have come on a happier occasion.” 

Yuri eyed Viktor carefully, saying nothing as the other man waved his head dubiously at the Aunt, still all smiles. The exact same shit he did when he wanted to get away with murder when cornered by Yakov. Or the Press. Or both. 

“Oh, my lady” He charmed the old hag. “I know the news are terrific, but we shall not precipitate ourselves, no? We should wait a bit longer until we can properly celebrate.”

“I agree, my Sire” She nodded. “But if Mr. Plisetsky is going to live on our home, we must have no secrets among us.”

“...What is it?” He heard his own voice sound strange. Off. Deep down he knew it already, but he needed confirmation. 

“The Lord has blessed us immensely” The Aunt said, Viktor’s smile frozen in place but his eyes totally dead. “We have a Miracle in our Home.”

***

 

Being a Sire had, sometimes, its highlights. 

First, he could do things inside his home the rest of the Household could not. Reading, writing, look for things around the house, taking walks without the company of an Aunt or a Driver - if you were by foot. And, if you felt naughty, you could smuggle a bit of some good spirits into his own chambers, like he did now. A crime punishable by flogging or even cutting a hand, if done by ‘lesser people’, but not the Sires. 

The bottle of finest old Russian Standard Vodka on his hands was given to him by the Kommissar himself, after he had a chat with the Medic that examined Yuuri. Congratulations, he said, and Viktor wanted to scream. He did not, of course; he all but accepted the gift as gracefully as any of his former medals. As for now, with the House preparing to sleep, the clear liquid he never enjoyed that much was burning his throat to the point he could barely breathe between one gulp and the other; he didn’t know if his eyes were watering because of that or because he was actually crying. 

Clutched at his hands, there was a key he found while searching through the house as discreetly as he could. He noticed the maid - the one in charge of the cleaning and organizing the house - avoided reading as much as she could; terrified as she was of being caught and having a finger or a hand cut off because women couldn’t read. Nor omegas, a part of him reminded that all the times he saw Yuuri at the house, his glasses were gone. He pushed the thought aside with another gulp of vodka and fixed his eyes on the name engraved in the old key, a match for the brand of the old lock that sealed the main chamber’s trapdoor. 

He was alone, no Father, no Yakov, no friends or anyone to whom he could ask for help, even a quick friendly advice. But that, indeed, could be for the good - His father, his mentor and even his friends (most of them gone or dead, by now) would tell him to not do what he knew, deep down, he had to. Even though Yuri Plisetsky almost choked on the tears he was holding to tell him that -  _ you stupid fuckup of an alpha _ \- the plan was mostly over. Even though his alpha instincts kept screaming at him that his Dam and his Child belonged by his side. 

His rational side, the man inside the skater and the alpha, knew better than that. 

His rational side, desperate, tired, drunk on the vodka from the celebration of his biggest sin.

The trapdoor in his closet creaked open and he realized it was him doing that, and he couldn’t stop. He closed it carefully, then walked to the locked door next to his and crouched to try his key. 

The lock busted open, and oh fuck he could smell Yuuri in there. 

“Go away” Yuuri said, voice thick with fear. “How-”

“Shhhh” His hands clumsily brushed Yuuri’s lips, head spinning. 

“Go away” Yuuri repeated a bit steadier this time as soon as his hand pushed his fingers away. “I will scream for Aunt.”

He wanted to say so many things. I am sorry, I fell in love with you on a stupid GPF banquet and I doomed your life, but yet I love you and I am torn between setting you free or staying by your side; but he had no time. He had no right. 

“No” He murmured instead, one step back and eyes glued to the floor. “Don’t.”

“What are you doing here?” “Are… are you drunk?”

Yuuri went rigid, but dared not to step away. Instead, he crooked his head to expose his neck a bit, a clear sign of submission to his Sire. 

“I am going to take you away from Russia.” He said, holding him at his arms. “Plisetsky is here, too, and both of you are going to leave to US embassy as soon as Rostelecom is due.”

“No.” Yuuri didn’t move. “I can’t.” 

“You can” Viktor tightened his hold a bit. “You can and you will. We won’t have another shot at this.” 

“Didn’t they tell you” Yuuri stifled his arms to face him, his eyes gleaming. “I am pregnant.” 

“I know.” Viktor insisted. “And that’s precisely why we must succeed. Yuuri-” 

“I am with child” Yuuri cut him in, voice low and aggressive. “Sire.” He spat. “How far do you think they would let me? How far, when I smell pregnant and wear a red number on my skin? I am with your child, and you must-” His voice quivered, tears spilling from his eyes. “-you must assure their safety when they take the child away from me!” 

“...I have no Wife, Yuuri!” 

“...Yeah. So?” 

“I won’t raise our child.”

“...I heard the Aunt telling the Medic that me, here, was an arrangement to accommodate your preferences because you are Russia’s national hero and you think you can tell me to go away because you don’t want to deal with a Wife-” 

“You really think that? I won’t raise the baby because I don’t want to have a Wife? ” Viktor forced his voice down, a hard task as emotional and tipsy as he was. “It was them who gave me no Wife!” 

“...What?”

“I was never assigned one! Because I am-” He swallowed the slur down, what he knew he was called so often. “...They call it my ‘proclivities’, to my face. So, no respectable woman from the Regimen would take the role of a Wife and raise a child from a… Someone like me.” 

“But the Medic…” 

“They can’t show Viktor Nikiforov on the Wall with a cloth on my face. Yet. They can’t yet. But they won’t let me near my child with you, they will be taken away as soon as they wean. For you, it will be another home, for me… It will be that Aunt, then a ‘nursery’, since I have no Wife. then a boarding child care, since I have no Wife. Then another Dam, another Child, and both of us will be breeding stock to those fuckers until they can dispose of you and me with the discretion they wish.” 

Yuuri’s kept biting his lip to avoid the sobs, a thing that he didn’t find the heart to do. Because he has never put it in words like that to anyone, not even himself - the realization of how doomed they really were. Now they would have a child and even though Viktor’s alpha howled inside his chest screaming that was his Life and Love, Mate and Family, Viktor’s man knew the only chance this child would have would be escape within his Dam and be born on a better place. 

“...I never wanted this” Viktor whispered between his sobs. “That night at the banquet, I was so happy but I knew it was that, I couldn’t… I couldn’t love. I couldn’t come out, get to love you, so I kept looking at the pictures I had, I still have some. I didn’t care being alone, as long as I had Makkachin and could dance on the Ice, and could remember you. But If I could know, I would step away from you, I would do anything to keep you from here, from this, and I am so sorry…”

He didn’t realize how bad he was shaking until he felt Yuuri’s arms timidly around him. Yuuri guided his head to the crook of his neck, his own breathing also on disarray due to crying as well. There Viktor snuggled, seeking a bit of comfort on his smell. 

“I don’t want to be alone, Viktor…” Yuuri held him close, crying softly. “I am afraid of being alone on all of this.” 

“Please, Yuuri, I will do anything.” Viktor’s voice rasped. “Anything you want from me, you need from me. I will do it…” 

“...Then come with me, and I will fight. I promise you I will.” Yuuri whispered. “But you come, and you stay by my side.” 

“Deal” Viktor finally smiled, even through his tears it was his truest smile in a long time. “You will stay close to me, and never leave.” 

***


End file.
